How Was I Supposed to Know
by anneelliot201
Summary: CROWLEY/OFC - Hazel is an ordinary woman-a blackjack dealer at a casino in the middle of the New Mexican desert-but her world gets turned upside down when a man in a black suit decides to take an interest in her. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN WHILE WATCHING SEASON 9 AND DOES NOT COMPLY WITH CURRENT CANON. I TOOK THINGS IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

The skirt was a couple inches too short and the bow tie too tight. Actually, the bow tie wasn't so bad at the beginning of her shift, but by the time midnight rolled around, she found herself unconsciously tugging at the collar of her white dress shirt. The uniform wasn't the worst part of the job, though. That honor belonged to the creepy men who said and did inappropriate things after lubricating their inhibitions with the cheap alcohol served at the bar along the far wall.

Hazel didn't think she was all that much to look at with her wide hips, thick thighs, and flat hair, but it wasn't like a casino just west of Albuquerque situated on a stretch of flat desert attracted the most gorgeous dealers or the pickiest clientele. Mostly, it was the lower class residents that lived in the southwestern part of the city and truckers who wanted a break from the endless roads crossing the country. Every now and then you'd see a tourist who stopped in on the way to Las Vegas or L.A. They would stay the night in one of the hotel rooms above the casino floor.

The casino wasn't really a resort, even though that's what the sign by the exit ramp on I-40 proclaimed. Not that it was a seedy dump either. The carpet was new, the bar clean, and the rooms comfortable, if a bit over-priced. The land everything sat on belonged to a local tribe and enjoyed a complete lack of taxation, allowing it to grow even if the majority of the income was swindled from low-income folks who dreamed of winning a jackpot. Without a degree in the current depressed economy, Hazel counted herself lucky to have a job that paid well above the minimum wage. If only the uniforms for dealers included skirts with hems that reached her knees.

There were three men sitting at her blackjack table-two truckers in their fifties who stopped by when they found themselves driving through Albuquerque on their way to the coast and an older man that probably lived in town. After working at the casino for two years, she recognized most of the people who came in regularly, especially if they favored blackjack. The place wasn't too large, so there were only about six blackjack tables across the floor and Hazel worked as many shifts as they would give her.

"Give me a little luck, sweetheart," one of the truckers said.

Hazel clenched her teeth and laid his two cards down on the green felt tabletop in front of him. He wasn't the best tipper, but he definitely wasn't the worst either. And tips were a definite perk of the job. Women who snapped at presumptuous men who doled out pet names didn't get tipped and they didn't stay on the payroll very long.

Over the past two years she had managed to find ways to mentally check out. She dealt the cards and did the math and collected or handed out chips, but her mind was elsewhere. Was it what she had envisioned for herself at the ripe age of twenty-nine? Not really. But it was reality.

Two more hands and the house had won both. She wondered why these guys bothered wasting their hard-earned cash when they rarely won more than they lost. There was some amount of skill to blackjack, but luck played a bigger part than most casino patrons were willing to admit. There was only one man who had an uncanny ability to win more often than not. And he hadn't been around in over a month.

Just as soon as he crossed her mind, she felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. Involuntarily, her eyes darted up over the heads of the men seated at her table and locked gazes with a man who had just walked through the front door. Hazel swallowed hard and looked down at the table.

"Come on, sweetcheeks," the trucker said, urging her to deal the cards.

"Sorry," Hazel mumbled, flicking two cards to each of the men at the table and then dealing two for herself, one up and the other facing down. His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Who the hell was he? Why was she so hyperaware of him? Half of her hoped he would come over and bestow some of his attention on her and half of her dreaded even the thought. She couldn't think straight when he sat at her table.

Forcing her attention back to the three gamblers at her table and the entire reason she was paying her rent on time since she'd moved out on her own, Hazel dealt a card to the old man who had indicated a hit with his hand and then watched as they all flipped over their hands. House wins again. They all knew it; she didn't even need to say it. The two truckers mumbled to each other about how low their wallets were and slipped off their stools to head back to their trucks. This place was good enough to gamble in, but the rooms were too expensive if their wallets were lighter than when they had arrived.

"Hello, love." The slightly gruff, yet utterly charming voice of HIM made her breath catch in her throat. Hazel looked up from the cards she'd gathered from the previous hand and saw him sitting directly across from her, one spot away from the old man who was still at the table.

Trying to keep her cool, Hazel replied, "Hello, Mr. Crowley. How are you this evening?"

He flashed her a grin. "Fantastic. And how is my favorite blackjack dealer?"

Mr. Crowley was always polite, always charming, and on some occasions Hazel could have sworn he was downright flirtatious. Not that she made anything of it. He was an attractive man who, judging by the amount of cash she'd seen him throw around, was obviously successful. He was just being kind to the somewhat shy wallflower who would act as his dealer when he happened to get the urge to gamble. For a while there he'd come in once or twice a week, play a few hands, make small talk or flirt a little with her, and then retire to the bar where he'd meet with people. It was like he used the casino as an office.

"I'm okay," she replied, stacking the cards from the last hand in the used pile. "Typical Tuesday night here in paradise."

"Wednesday morning," he corrected. "It's ten after one." Mr. Crowley flashed his watch at her. It probably cost more than what she'd make in a month or three.

"Would you like chips?" she asked.

"Please, love." He pushed five one hundred dollar bills across the table. Hazel let her gaze linger on the back of his hand and his fingers, thinking of how strong and capable they looked. He was slow to pull back, like he knew she was staring. Just the thought that he had any idea of her fascination with him made her blush.

"Of course," she mumbled, pushing the cash through the slot on the table and counting out five hundred in chips that she dropped in front of him.

"Thank you, darling," he said, flashing another cheeky grin.

Hazel tried to focus on her job, but he made it hard. His presence was overwhelming, almost stifling. It was like he was too big for the room and that left little space for her or anyone else. He also made her feel like she needed to be on her toes or he'd take advantage and make a fool of her. Not that he'd cheat or steal, but that he was smart and like to use that intelligence to get what he wanted. Plus, it was like he knew what cards were coming up. It unnerved her. Maybe he counted cards and that was the secret to his success.

She dealt the first hand and he lost. The next found the old man as the only person with a winning hand. He took the chips she provided and left. Mr Crowley with his predatory eyes watched as she dealt another hand. He'd bet big and when the cards were revealed, he lost again.

"Be kind to me, love," he said with a pout that most definitely looked fake.

"I just deal them in the order they come, Mr. Crowley." She pulled the first card and then the second. Before she could pull her hand away to deal her two cards, his arm shot out. She felt the firm pressure of his fingertips on her wrist. "Why don't you give them a little blow for good luck?"

"This isn't craps," she said.

"For me," he insisted, those dark eyes imploring her.

"I shouldn't." She glanced over at the cage where the cash was kept. Right above it was an office filled with screens airing live security footage of the floor. The place was slow tonight and she didn't want to get caught doing something that was frowned on like flirting with a customer. Then again, the thought of her trying to flirt with the shark in front of her was more than ridiculous. And he'd gotten away with touching her. Maybe security was slacking tonight.

"Just a little sweetness from your lips to turn my luck around," he said, his eyes pinning her down.

Parting her lips, Hazel drew in a breath of air before leaning across the table. Mr. Crowley released her wrist and she kept her eyes locked on his as she pursed her lips and blew a stream of air over the backs of his cards. The way his eyes shifted to her lips made her clench her legs to acknowledge the ache between them.

It took her more than a moment to compose herself enough to pull back and place a shaky hand on the deck. In a haze, she pulled two cards for herself, one face up and the other face down.

"I'll stay," he said without even taking a peek at his two cards. She almost opened her mouth to tell him he hadn't seen his cards, but he beat her to it by flipping them over to reveal an ace and a king. "Would you look at that." His voice was smug and confident.

Hazel opened her mouth but nothing came out. Flipping the hidden card in front of her over, she found that the house had a seventeen. He had twenty-one. Unbelievable. Silently, she counted out his winnings and slid them over to join his bank. He took a hundred dollar chip, leaned across the table, and smoothly tucked it at the top of her ear. His fingers pinched a piece of her blonde hair, sliding down it as he drew away.

"My thanks to my little lucky charm," he said before swiping the chips off the felt table and making his way over to the bar. Two men in suits were sitting at one end. He joined them and ordered what looked like a whiskey. Hazel's body was still buzzing with electricity over his touch. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself while pulling in a long, deep breath.

* * *

Money was everything in a casino. Sometimes she felt that the security there was just as good, if not better, than a bank. And even if you were a trusted employee who hadn't had a mark against her in two long years, they still sent the floor manager over to escort you and your small bank to the cage when going on break or after your shift. Charles was the no-nonsense manager that prided himself on his ridiculous mustache and cheap suits. Hazel didn't hate him, but that didn't mean she liked him either.

After she counted out the cash in her box and the chips she'd taken from the table, she clocked out for a short lunch. Most people were probably brushing their teeth and preparing for bed, but her shift meant lunchtime fell around ten o'clock at night. She couldn't complain, though. It was the busiest and most lucrative shift, and it wasn't like she had much of a life beyond work and trying like hell to become the next best American writer. The writing wasn't going very well lately. She'd get home from work and just sit in front of the glowing screen of her computer until she was so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

It was slow, even for a Monday. A couple women were chain smoking at the slot machines along the wall near the bar. A small group was clustered around one of the poker tables and a couple was sitting at the blackjack table with Hazel's lunchtime relief dealer.

She adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder and dropped her gaze to the floor when she saw an obviously drunk customer walking toward her.

"What's shakin', honey?"

She looked up and saw the drunk man had noticed her and was running his eyes from her chest down to her legs. "Not much. Have a good night, sir," she mumbled, rushing past him.

"Woah, woah, woah, where you goin' baby?"

Talking to the ones who had a little too much cheap booze at the bar was always a mistake. Instead, she pushed past him and hoped he'd forget he'd seen her. She realized he hadn't when she felt his fingers wrap around her upper arm. Hazel stopped and turned to ask him to let her go when she saw a flash of black. Suddenly the man who'd been harassing her was on one knee with his arm twisted behind his back. The pressure of where his fingertips has bitten into her arm lingered.

Looking up, she saw Mr. Crowley standing over the drunk man, holding him in place. "Apologize to the lady," his said gruffly.

"So-sor-sorry."

With that, Mr. Crowley released the man and stepped around him. "There's just really no sense of decorum nowadays." He was in his usual suit-black on black with a dark grey tie. Everything looked expensive and perfectly tailored to fit his body.

It took a couple tries for Hazel to finally manage a muttered thank you. She hadn't seen him since he'd broken the rules and grabbed her wrist while playing blackjack a couple weeks ago.

"Leaving, love?" Mr. Crowley asked, running his eyes down her body.

Hazel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable being the sole focus of this man's attention. "Just going to lunch."

"The restaurant?" he asked, referring to the small buffet to the right of the rows of slot machines.

"I, uh, usually just sit in my car and read."

Crowley smiled. "Have a drink with me."

"I really shouldn't."

"Your lunch break, your time. You don't want my company?"

She glanced at the door behind her. He really was cocky. Confident didn't quite cover it. Although, he'd pegged her easily; she did want his company. She just wasn't comfortable with it. He was just too *much* for her. "I-I can't drink on the job."

"A Shirley Temple, then," he said, stepping forward and sliding his arm between hers and her body so he could lead her over to the bar like a gentleman. What man did that any more? No one she'd ever met. That was something she'd seen in movies, mostly the film noir films she loved to stay up late to watch.

"I-um, okay." She caved easily because he really was charming. And he'd saved her from having to deal with an drunken idiot. And he was handsome and presumably rich and suave and... And the way he looked at her made her feel like she needed to change her panties. He probably had no clue he had that deep of an effect on her libido.

Mr. Crowley led her to a bar stool and steadied her hand with his as she lifted herself up to sit on it. Once she was settled, she pulled away from him to yank the hem of her skirt down. It had ridden halfway up her thighs and he was looking.

"Don't be embarrassed, love. You look quite fetching," he murmured in her ear before taking the stool right beside her.

Flushing, Hazel turned away from him to face the back of the bar. The premium liquor bottles were displayed on the glass shelves, lit from behind to entice patrons to order a cocktail or a shot. "Oh, please," she whispered beneath a nervous laugh.

"Really. I never lie." He motioned to the bartender and said, "A Shirley Temple for the lady and a double Craig, neat."

"Uh, we don't have... Craig?"

Mr. Crowley made a noise of disgust at the bartender's lack of knowledge and lack of premium whiskey. "Glenlivet then? Anything over twenty years."

"Yes, sir," the bartender replied and hurried off to pour their drinks. Mr. Crowley's eyes shifted back to Hazel.

"And why does a lovely creature such as yourself spend her lunch in a car?"

Hazel looked over at him and nervously pressed her hands flat against the bar top. "I just like to get away and spend some time by myself. I like the quiet. And I like to read."

"And what do you read?"

"Anything, really." She shrugged and glanced over to check on the status of their drinks.

"Plato? Shakespeare? Stephen King?"

"All of them."

"Shall I test you then? Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure..."

Hazel looked over and gave him a small smile. She knew the quote he'd begun. It was one of the more famous ones of Lord Byron's. "There is no sterner moralist than pleasure," she added, completing the line.

Mr. Crowley chuckled and gave her a devilish wink. She swallowed before pulling in a deep breath. His charms were considerable and she didn't need to become any more enamored of him than she already was. Even sitting there was stirring up fantasies. Fantasies that involved this handsome, wealthy, confident man plucking her out of this second-rate casino and making love to her, taking her under his wing and allowing her to write in leisure in his beautiful home without a worry of bills. And of sharing his bed every single night.

It was crazy. She'd barely spoken to him. He made her nervous and he seemed too full of himself. And she didn't need a man to take care of her; she was a strong woman who could make it on her own. But still... he made her wonder what it would be like to have him snap his fingers and make everything in her world better. Because she had no doubt he could.

"Shirley Temple and Glenlivit, sir," the bartender said, placing the drinks in front of them.

Mr. Crowley nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to watch her take the first sip.

"How does it taste, love?"

"Good," she replied honestly. Hazel took a second sip. "Delicious, actually. Like cherries. How is your drink?"

"Rich, smokey..." He sniffed the liquor. "With a little honey."

God, the way he described his drink made her cross her legs and squeeze her thighs together. The way he smiled at her when she did it made her wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It made her nervous.

"Hazel, darling, you try very hard to blend into the furniture. Why is that?"

Her name on his lips made her suck in a quick gasp. She glanced over at him and then back down at her drink. "I like to be innocuous. Too much attention bothers me."

"And yet you seem to draw attention," he mused, turning his glass on the bar top. "Granted, the attire doesn't help matters."

Hazel uncrossed her legs and pulled at the hem of the skirt again. "It's required by the casino. They provide the skirts, white dress shirts, and these damn bow ties."

"They didn't know you'd look so desirable in them. Or, perhaps they did..." he replied, shifting his dark eyes from her face to her chest and then back up again.

It was too much, too over-the-top. Surely he was just poking fun at her. She was nothing special-just baby-fine blonde hair, a pasty complexion, boobs that always seemed to get in the way, wide hips, and thighs that barely fit in her size sixteen jeans. This man could have a supermodel with the amount of confidence and sex appeal he oozed. She was not so important as to merit all this attention. This had to be a joke.

"I don't appreciate being made fun of, Mr. Crowley."

"Excuse me?" he said, his normal deep tone suffering as his voice pitched a little higher.

"Spending my lunch break being poked fun of by a customer is not my idea of a good time. You can stop the charade."

"Charade, darling? Are my seduction skills so poor?"

"Oh, no," she snapped. "They're quite good. But I'm not looking forward to being laughed at when I fall for your charms." Hazel reached for her drink, but he'd quickly slid it away from her. She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowed in embarrassment and anger.

His face was solemn. "I believe you have mistaken me for someone else. I'm afraid I am being absolutely sincere. You see, I've had an unfortunate week. Nothing has gone right with my plans and my... employees are just... incompetent. So, I find myself sitting at my desk and thinking of what would make me feel better. And this innocent little blonde blackjack dealer pops into my head."

"What?" It was her voice, but the question jumped out without much thought. She was too surprised to suppress it.

"You see, I was hoping you'd make me feel better."

"Excuse me?" she replied, furrowing her brows.

"No?" he asked.

"Like, sleep with you? You came here to ask me to sleep with you?"

"Well, if you want to put it so crudely, love." He was smiling again.

"Uh, no. No, thanks." Her emotions were conflicted. On one hand she was disgusted that a man she didn't even know had assumed she was so easy that he could ask her to fuck and she'd give in. On the other hand, she was still reeling from the knowledge that he wanted her. She'd never sleep with someone like him. Would she?

"I assure you that you'll leave satisfied, though perhaps not as satisfied as I will be."

"Do I look like the type who would...?"

"No," he replied, cutting her off. "Which is part of the reason I want you."

"A challenge," Hazel said, reaching over and snatching her drink back from him.

"A prize."

"I'm a person, not a prize."

"Can't you be both, love?"

"No. And my answer is no." She took a sip through the straw, but it didn't calm her nerves. A combination of embarrassment and anger and desire were causing her hands to shake.

"I have the penthouse suite upstairs," he offered, as if it would change her mind.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy the view by yourself, then. Or you could woo some other woman here with your cocky lines and assumptions."

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I know you want me; I can smell it on you."

Hazel squeezed her thighs together. "Don't be so disgusting."

"At least give me a kiss, then," he whispered, leaning closer. The corners of his mouth were curled up in a grin.

"No," she said, slipping off the stool and taking two steps back.

For a fraction of a moment he looked shocked that she hadn't caved. Then his face settled into a pleasant mask of a polite gentleman. "Your loss, love. No need to run away. Let's finish our drinks."

"I'm not thirsty."

"Hazel, darling, don't be so dramatic. I respect your decision. Tell me about your favorite book. I'm partial to Dante's Divine Comedy."

After a few moment's hesitation, she sat back down and took another sip. "I don't like poetry," she finally replied.

Mr. Crowley chuckled under his breath. "You were quoting Byron not too long ago. You're such a difficult date, love."

"Everyone knows Byron and we're not on a date."

"Obviously," he said dryly. "Would you accompany me on one?"

"N-" Hazel clamped her mouth shut before she told him no. Because it wasn't true. If he asked her on a date, she'd consider. Even after his presumptions, she still wanted him. It was confusing. "I don't know."

"Fair enough." Crowley raised his drink in a silent toast.

The Shirley Temple was watered down and not nearly as enjoyable as it was when it first arrived. She took another sip anyway and scanned the room, trying to think of something to say. "Are those men waiting for you?" she asked, nodding at three men in suits on the far end of the bar.

Mr. Crowley glanced over his shoulder and then settled his gaze back on her. Every time he looked at her she got hot and bothered, especially now that he's propositioned her. "Yes," he replied simply.

"Don't let me keep you."

"They can wait," he said. "You don't like poetry, but what do you like?"

Why was he making those men wait? And why weren't they upset about it? Who the hell was this guy? "I... I like science fiction novels the most."

"Asimov? Dick?" he asked. The fact that he was talking about her first love-books-almost made her reconsider the offer of a night of passion in the penthouse suite upstairs.

"Gene Wolfe is my favorite," she blurted out. "He's... darker than most. I... like that."

That smile again, like the Cheshire Cat. "I should have known."

She waved her hand in dismissal. "Wolfe is a genius."

Another chuckle from him. His eyes glinted with mischief and intelligence. "That we are capable only of being what we are remains our unforgivable sin," Mr. Crowley said softly. Why did she tell him no in the first place?

The line was from Wolfe's The Claw of the Conciliator. The way it rolled off his tongue and hung in the air took Hazel's breath away. After a long moment of staring at his face, admiring the rugged five o'clock shadow from where he hadn't shaved, she pulled in a breath. "If you would have led with that, then I'd probably be upstairs with you."

The boldness of her statement shocked her. She didn't say things like that.

Mr. Crowley flashed her his teeth when he smiled. He was looking downright predatory now. "I'm still here, waiting, darling. Would you like a key?"

Hazel shook her head, trying to clear it of his influence and tell him no at the same time. "No, no. You have business associates waiting and I have to get back to work."

"After your shift?"

A flush crept across her cheeks and she slipped off the stool. "Not that kind of girl. Sorry."

"Mmm, pity," he said, pushing out his lower lip in a pout.

 _ **AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't written anything in months and have never written Supernatural. I'm currently watching Season 9 of the series and this fic was started during the part of the show right before and while Crowley was locked up in the bunker. I took things in a different direction, so I guess this could be an alt-universe/alt-ending. I would love, love, love Supernatural friends and feedback on this fic. It will probably be about twelve chapters and about 50,000. Nine of the chapters are written, but need to be reviewed and re-written by me. If you're reading, please do drop me a line or leave me a note. :-)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Three nights later and he was striding across the casino floor like he owned the place. His tailored, black suit was impeccable and the tie was a pale, muted blue with a paisley print in a darker color. As always, his confidence and charm made him the most attractive man in the room. Her stomach flip-flopped when he sat down at her empty table. It was a fairly busy Thursday night, but the casino had two other blackjack tables open and she'd just gotten off break.

"Hello, love."

"I'm surprised to see you here," she said.

He cocked his head to the side. "And why would that be?"

"Our awkward conversation earlier this week."

"That? That's nothing. I'd like you to share my bed. Or floor. Or wall." He flashed a wide grin. "But my charms don't seem to work on you, love. I've survived worse than a little rejection."

Hazel laughed softly under her breath. "You're kinda out of my league anyway."

"Nonsense. Don't sell yourself short."

"What are you, handing out self confidence since you have so much already?"

"Just to you, darling," he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in humor.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked, shuffling the six decks of cards at her table.

"What do you think I do?"

"Lawyer?"

He chuckled. "Close, but not quite."

"Do you enjoy it, whatever it is you do?"

He shifted is gaze to the floor, letting several seconds pass before he finally said, "Of course. "

Hazel narrowed her eyes. "That didn't sound very convincing. "

"Most of the time I do," he amended.

"It's fulfilling?"

"Is any job?"

She shrugged. "Touché. This one certainly leaves something to be desired. "

"And what do you really want to do?"

"Be a writer. It just doesn't always pay the bills. " Hazel finished shuffling the decks and stowed the cards away in the holder.

"What if I could make that happen?"

She smiled at him. "So you're a literary agent?"

"Of a sort, I suppose. What if I gave you success as a writer in exchange for something small?"

"Oh, yeah? Something like what?" she asked, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward.

"A trifle, nothing you'd miss." His voice was deep, gruff. His eyes were shining. And a small, superstitious part of Hazel shrank back in fear.

"Not interested. If I didn't earn it myself, then I'd just be another hack. Besides, you don't seem like an agent. You seem like a mob boss."

He pulled back, a brief moment of frustration flashing across his face. So he wasn't used to being told no to sex or to shady deals. Hazel watched as he quickly schooled his expression. "I could get you to the top of the New York Times best sellers list and it'll just cost you your soul."

"My what? My soul?" She furrowed her brows at him. "Very funny. Ha ha. You're much too cute to be the devil."

"I'm not, love. I'm Crowley. And the deal is real."

"Funny joke, Mr. Crowley, but I'm not that naive." She looked at him, trying to figure out if he really was joking or if he was unhinged. Not that she was still entertaining the thought of sleeping with him, but it'd be a damn shame for womankind if dark and delicious was a nutball. He looked back, his gaze steady and clear, no hint of madness. "Plus," Hazel added lightly, "what kind of shit would I write without my soul? Fifty Shades of Grey?"

Mr. Crowley tipped back his head and laughed loudly. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you, darling?"

"Are you playing, Mr Crowley?" she asked, looking down at the green felt table and back up to him and his oddly handsome face that she couldn't get out of her head or her fantasies.

"No, I've got business to attend to." He stood up and and buttoned his suit jacket. "And love?"

"Yes?"

"It's Crowley. No mister."

"Like Cher?"

"Like God."

* * *

She'd experienced his dry sense of humor before, so it really wasn't reaching too far to say that his claim of being god or the devil was just a poor attempt at a joke. And yet, there was something about him that made him stand out. The bartenders always served him first. People quickly moved out of his way when he walked by. And she always felt his presence when he was in the casino. Like some sort of magnetic field around him. But still. Either he was exhibiting his dry humor or he really was certifiably insane because having charisma and a dominant personality didn't mean you were something other than a man.

Since he'd propositioned her a little over a week ago, she couldn't stop thinking about him and what he'd be like intimately. Would he be gentle and giving or forceful and demanding? The later, she'd decided. Most definitely the kind of guy who wanted to call all the shots. But there was also a playful side, or at least she liked to think there was. A side that would make it fun and pleasurable with no strings attached. Not that she was the kind of woman who could handle fun with no strings attached. She'd had two significant relationships that lasted for two and three years, respectively. There had been a couple flings shortly after the breakups, but those were a product of her grief, not because she'd really wanted to have sex.

He made her want to have sex, though. Dirty, filthy sex on the floor of his twenty-third floor penthouse suite. He'd undress her or force her to undress herself while he sat in an armchair like it was a throne and watched with that enigmatic smirk. Or at least that's what she fantasized about when she was in bed alone with the sun close to the horizon.

Tonight she was sitting in front of her computer after a long night at the casino. She typically left work around two in the morning. The small house she rented on the western side of the city was about twenty minutes from work. The neighborhood wasn't great, but she had an old revolver that had belonged to her dad and a tendency to make herself invisible, even to would-be criminals. By two-thirty she was usually eating a microwave dinner in front of her computer while she attempted to work on one of the hundred plus short stories she'd started and never finished. By five or six in the morning, she was ready to pass out in bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. Day after day.

The only excitement lately had been Crowley and his shameless pursuit. The feminist in her wanted to be annoyed at a man who thought everything he wanted should just fall at his feet. The woman in her was intrigued by his magnetism and blatantly flirtatious behavior. Despite it all, she found it flattering and fuel to the fantasies he'd already inspired in her mind. Whenever she wasn't occupied, she found herself thinking of him. She'd even started a couple short stories that featured someone like him. Or at least her idea of who he really was instead of who he presented to her at the casino.

Minimizing her word processor, Hazel pulled up an internet browser window and chewed on her bottom lip. After a long moment of lightly running her fingertips over the keys of the keyboard, she sucked in a deep breath and typed, "Crowley deals," before hitting search.

The first six results were about Aleister Crowley, the creepy occultist. Most of the other websites were also about him. The seventh, though, was a message board on a website that looked like it had been created in the nineties and not updated since. The first message was posted by a guest to the website, asking if anyone had encountered a demon named Crowley who would give you your deepest desire if you promised your soul. There were three pages of discussion from board members and guests, many of whom claim to have heard of or met him.

The posts that mentioned physical description said he was average height, dressed in all black, dark hair, English accent, friendly, charming, and the consummate businessman. Everything her Crowley was as well. Of the three pages there were a couple people who seemed to be frightened-people who claimed to have made a deal with Crowley and were worried about paying up. Those two cautioned others to think twice before summoning the demon by burying a box containing a list of items at a crossroads.

It couldn't be real. It had to be a group of roleplayers-LARPERs. People who acted out their fantasies like it was real life. Demons didn't exist. And the man who frequented her casino every now and then certainly wasn't one. It was ridiculous to even consider it. Beyond ridiculous. It was probably some elaborate joke and he probably played games with all the LARPERs on that message board.

Hazel closed the browser and stared at clear blue water contrasting with the taupe sand that made up the wallpaper of her computer. It was some beach in Bali. Somewhere she'd never been and probably would never go to. That sensation of feeling sorry for herself began welling up in her. She was stuck in a city she didn't love, working a job she almost hated, and the only excitement in her life turned out to be a man who played make-believe games involving him being a big, bad demon. Pathetic.

* * *

She had twenty minutes left in her shift and it couldn't possibly go any slower. Mondays were the worst. Everyone had lost all they could afford to lose of their paychecks over the weekend and gambling hangovers prevented many from stopping in to occupy her long eight hours. She was carefully organizing the piles of chips for the twentieth time when she felt that electricity that meant HE had walked in the door.

Hazel looked up and saw him walk past the slot machines by the doors and over to the bar. Within a few seconds, he had a glass of what she assumed was the most expensive whiskey in the place. And then he turned to her and caught her gaze from across the room. She swallowed hard and held eye contact for as long as she could before nervously dropping her gaze to the table. He was walking over. She didn't even have to look to know it. Powerful men commanded attention. He was NOT a demon. That was just stupid.

"Hello, love." That voice. That sexy, smokey, gruff voice that she couldn't get out of her head. Why was he playing games and pretending to be a demon?

"Hello," Hazel replied, looking up to see his tongue touch the rim of his glass after taking a sip. "Would you like to exchange for chips?"

Without saying a word, he pulled five one hundred dollar bills from an old silver money clip that obviously held ten times that. What did he DO? How did get have so much money?

She took them and gave him twenty dollar chips. Trying not to think about anything but doing her job, she forced a smile and said, "How are you this evening?"

"I could be better, darling. I thought a little taste of you might put me in a better mood."

"I'm sure a taste of that whiskey will make you feel better." Hazel dealt him two cards and then two for the house, one facing up.

He motioned to stay and she flipped the cards over to reveal the house had won. "Do I make you uncomfortable, love?"

Hazel swept up the chips and added them to her bank. "No. Yes. You... men don't hit on me like you do."

"Mmm, pity. But fortunate for me, I suppose. Aren't you the least bit tempted?"

She dealt another hand. "Tempted?" The house had a jack facing up. He had a two and a nine. She watched him tap the table for another card.

"Don't I tempt you?" he asked.

"Of course."

That smile of his made her weak in the knees and he was currently using it to his advantage. He won the hand and she paid him from the bank before waiting for the next bet. Instead of betting, he said, "Do I tempt your body or your desire for a bestseller."

"You can't make me a successful author," she stated, dealing another hand. He'd laid down a hundred dollar bet and his hand was good-a twenty.

"I can do many things, love. You have no idea." His growly voice made that spot between her legs ache.

"But you're not a genie who grants wishes."

He stayed and he won the hand. Of course. He always won the big hands. "Never said I was a genie."

"Well, I think it's silly that you insist on playing this little game where you pretend you're the devil and you're buying souls for favors." He bet twenty bucks and she dealt his hand.

"Not the devil either, darling."

"Devil, demon, whatever. You're a grown man who is obviously successful; you're too old for make-believe." He asked for another card and busted. She took his chips and waited for his next bet.

Crowley picked his whiskey up and took a long sip from the glass, obviously savoring the taste before swallowing. He made it look sexy, sensual. Hazel looked away quickly.

"There's a big world out there, love. You never know what might be in it. Maybe even things you don't believe in. Like me."

"Yeah, sure." She finally looked back up at him. "Bet?"

"Penthouse?"

"No," she told him. "Not that kind of girl."

"Your name on hardcovers displayed at a bookstore?"

"You can't do it."

He chuckled softly. "And if it could?"

Hazel didn't even pause before saying, "No."

"Fair enough, love. Sorry to hear it." He left a hundred dollars in chips on the table, picked up his drink, and left.

* * *

The encounter with him the previous day was equal parts nerve-wrecking and frustrating. And maybe just a little bit exciting too. He made her nervous, but she was also irritated that he insisted on keeping up this charade that he was some mysterious demon. It was too silly and should have made her find him less attractive. Unfortunately, it didn't. After wrapping up her shift on this slow Tuesday night, she grabbed her purse from the locker in the back and headed out the employee exit on the side of the building.

Her car was parked on the far end of the lot since she liked to eat her lunch in privacy sometimes. Normally, Hazel was very aware of her surroundings as the heels of her shoes clipped across the pavement. Tonight she was thinking of Crowley and the way he shamelessly pursued her. Despite everything, she still found it a little flattering. And that was annoying.

She was halfway to the car when she heard a scuff of feet behind her. Turning around, she found a tall man dressed in a suit. His hair was just long enough to brush the collar of the white dress shirt. Without a word, he grabbed her upper arm. Hazel heard a shriek of fright and surprise jump out of her mouth. She twisted her body to pull herself away from him.

"What are..." she tried to ask him.

"Come with me," he told her.

"No. Let me go. Now," she demanded, trying to yank her arm away from him. He had a firm grasp on her and wasn't letting go.

"I'm serious," she said. "Let me go." There was panic in her voice now. The parking lot was dark and an empty and this man had empty eyes and an expressionless face. "Let go," she repeated.

Before she completely lost and starting kicking her assailant in the legs, she heard another voice say, "Let go of the lady."

"Crowley," she said, anxiety evident in her voice, looking to him for help. The man who had grabbed her so forcefully, digging his fingers into the flesh of her arm, immediately let her go and backed away.

"Sorry," the man said. "Mistaken identity." With that said, he turned and walked back toward the casino.

"What just happened?" she asked Crowley, rubbing her arm. There would probably be bruises from that man's fingertips.

He shrugged. "Rude customers, I suppose, love. I heard you scream."

"Oh. How did you get here so quickly? I didn't even see you here tonight." Her mind felt jumbled and the world seemed surreal. A few seconds ago she was thinking of him and walking to her car on autopilot and now she was mentally recovering from nearly being attacked by a stranger in the parking lot before he rescued her. He had to have been directly behind the man.

"I was on my way to my car," he explained.

She swept her eyes across the parking lot. There were no other cars around them. "Where is your car?"

He smiled at her. "I must have got turned around and looked on the wrong side of the parking lot."

Hazel pushed her hair back away from her face. "Oh. Uh, thank you. For, uh, making him go away."

"You shouldn't walk through dark parking lots if you don't have something to protect yourself, darling."

She shrugged and took two steps back from him. He made her uneasy. If given the choice, she'd pick him over the mystery guy that had grabbed her, but it would be a close call. "It's not a bad area. And there is a light by car."

"Still," he said, stepping toward her. "Walk you to your car?"

"I'm-I'm okay. Just a little shaken."

"Really, love. I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone right now. I'll behave myself."

Hazel pulled in a deep breath and blew it out of her mouth. He seemed sane and concerned and harmless enough. Maybe. "My car isn't that far."

"I see it. I'll just walk you there and send you on your way."

He fell into step beside Hazel, his hand lightly on her elbow, guiding her to the vehicle. It felt gentlemanly and sweet and her unease at being accosted in the parking lot began to fade as they made their way to her ten-year-old blue sedan that had seen better days.

"So, you probably drive a black Mercedes or something, right, Mr. Penthouse suite?" she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckled softly. "Something like that."

"You're sweet to walk to me to my car, but this really isn't necessary."

"I'm many things, love. But sweet isn't one of them. I always have an ulterior motive."

She felt her heartbeat increase and adrenaline flood her system. What kind of motive? Rape? She'd turned him down after all.

He seemed to sense her tension because he moved his hand to the small of her back and said, "Trying to make myself look like the hero so you won't be able to resist me. Is it working?"

"I-uh-maybe." So maybe it was. Something about him made her feel like nothing could touch her. He could handle any problem.

He grinned, flashing her his white teeth. "Very good. But, alas, my time is up. We've arrived at your car."

The yellow light from above cast a soft circular glow on the parking lot. Her car was directly in the middle. You could see the chips and small dents on the body of the car this close. She fumbled in her purse for the keys and unlocked the door with trembling hands. Sure, she was nervous. But this also felt like the end of a date.

"Thanks for... for walking me," she said again when she turned to face him.

Crowley took a step closer to her, and then another. Hazel took a step back and found her ass pressed against the window of the back door. "Did I tell you my fee for walking you to your car is a kiss?" he asked softly.

"N-no, you didn't." And as much as she felt she should tell him that she wasn't about to just lay a smooch on him, she actually really wanted to. She'd been fantasizing about him for weeks.

He took one more step forward, which brought his body flush against hers. Hazel tilted her head back to look up. While he wasn't a tall guy, he still had a few inches on her. Unconsciously, she found herself licking her lips as he slipped a hand up to cradle the back of her neck and the base of her skull.

"Oh, god," she murmured, closing her eyes and waiting for the press of her lips. The warmth of his hand on the back of her neck felt delicious.

He laughed softly, allowing a puff of warm breath to caress her face. "Oh, Crowley," he corrected.

She didn't have time to repeat what he'd said before he gently glided his lips over hers. It was a teasing, tentative kiss, one that left her burning for more. Hazel lifted her hands and grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit for balance as she pushed up on her tip-toes and kissed him back. The boldness of the move was so unlike her and must have set off the animal in him because he collapsed on her, pressing her back against the car.

His knee was nestled between her thighs and his tongue was gliding over her own. She groaned in desire, feeling faint and consumed by need. His hand on her neck was scorching hot and she wished that their clothes would disappear. Never had she ever been so enticed to have sex on her car in the middle of a parking lot with a man she didn't even really know. A man who insinuated he was a demon. It was madness.

Too soon, he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers. She could hardly catch her breath as she stared into his eyes. Just as she made the decision to lean forward and kiss him again, she heard the sound of her car door open. He'd reached over beside her hip and pulled the handle. "Drive safe," he whispered.

"But..." Hazel protested, looking from the open door to him.

"If you ever feel like you want to be a little less than perfectly good, give me a call. I'd love to corrupt you, darling." She looked down to see him slip a white business card into the purse hanging from her shoulder.

And then he was gone. The warmth of his body missing from against hers, his dark back retreating across the parking lot, blending into the night. She was too dumbfounded to call after him, even though she desperately wanted to do so.

Hazel drove home, but couldn't have told you anything about the drive. Her lips were still tingling from the touch of his. His kiss had been forceful and confident and oh-so-delicious. It would just add fire to the desire he had already kindled in her. She stripped off her clothes as soon as she got into the house and stepped into a hot shower where her hands seemed to dip down to the apex of her thighs of their own accord. After a few minutes of manipulation with her fingers, she orgasmed, her legs almost buckling with the intensity of it.

Turning the cold water up, she finished washing her hair before getting out and putting on her pajamas. The first thing she did, even before nuking her dinner in the microwave, was check her purse. The white card was sitting on top of her wallet. Hazel held her breath as she pulled it out and looked at the embossed black letters neatly printed in the middle.

 _Crowley_

 _King of Hell_

 _Mobile: 666_

She read the card multiple times before flipping it over for the joke. No "haha, gotcha" on the back. What the fuck? Seriously? Was this all part of his game?

Feeling a little sick to her stomach that she let some guy get under her skin so much, Hazel tossed the card in the kitchen trash can and pulled a dinner out of the freezer. King of Hell. Yeah, right.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"I don't know what you're talking about, boys," Crowley said, smiling at his two least favorite humans. They were nothing but trouble and now they had him by the proverbial balls.

"We should just give him to Abbadon in exchange for her getting off our asses." Dean spit the words out before pushing himself out of the chair that he was sitting in.

The thought of being surrendered to Abbadon like he was-shackled and powerless-was horrifying. Crowley had been around the block more than once, even lived through an apocalypse or three, but he had no intention of crossing paths with Abbadon until he was back to full strength with his supporters in Hell at his back. Without that, he'd never win.

The blood Moose had injected him with weeks before in the abandoned church had done a number on him. He could still feel that heaviness of humanity as it tried to pull him under every now and then when his mind wandered. It was the most distressing thing he'd felt in ages, perhaps even more than when his soul had been twisted into its current form. And yet, there was something so bittersweet about feeling human again. Like coming home after centuries of traveling. He wanted to feel disgusted with his weakness, but he felt more disgusted with his past.

The blood had worn off some by the time the Winchesters had pulled him out of the Impala's trunk. Thankfully, his bouts of tears and hysterics had subsided during his time restrained in that dark box that stank of oil and steel. Now he just had periods of maudlin guilt and grief in the more tedious moments chained up in their bunker, or whatever it was. All he could see were the stone walls surrounding him and the shelves of boxes in the room beyond. Of course, he'd picked up little clues here and there in their conversations with him or in front of him, but it was still somewhat of a mystery.

"Dean, we can't deal with her. She's..."

"Insane," Crowley said, finishing Sam's sentence. "She'll never give you anything."

"Like you have," Dean snapped back.

"Boys, let's not forget the Colt and the myriad of helpful pieces of information I've provided. The situation with the Leviathan. Most recently, I kindly translated your little angels-fall-from-heaven spell."

"Yeah, well, a lot of good that did," Dean replied.

"And we paid you for that. You made a call," Sam added. "And you know you never help us unless there is something in it for you."

Crowley held his hands out. "What can I say? I'm an businessman."

"A salesman," Sam corrected.

"I like businessman better," Crowley said, trying to keep his tone smooth and level. He still remembered the way Abbadon had called him a salesman like it was a bad thing. Hell had prospered during his reign while she was out of the picture. Fuck her.

"Look," Sam sat down in Dean's abandoned chair across the table from Crowley. "Word on the street is that Abbadon is locked out of the inner sanctum of Hell. She can plan all she wants, but can't actually rule without the power there."

Crowley smiled, and while he did feel pleasure over Abbadon's frustration, he also felt his fear. The smile felt more like a grimace. If only everyone knew how tenuous his hold on Hell was. If she found the key, then he'd be hunted down and killed. Not even the Winchesters and their little demon-proof bunker could save him.

"I don't know what key you're referring to," he told Moose.

"I think you do," Sam replied.

"And if I do, why would I tell you and Squirrel about it? Perhaps if you let me out of these shackles, my memory might clear up."

"No," Dean snapped. "No deals."

Crowley swallowed. He felt that familiar wave of nausea that was about to crest. He attributed it to the blood-some sort of addition to the human blood that Sam injected him with. The nausea was typically followed by overwhelming emotion. There was a Portuguese word-saudade-that Crowley thought was the best choice to explain how he felt in these times. Saudade couldn't be translated into any one word in English, but it meant an overpowering and melancholy longing for what is lost and will likely never been regained. After so many years existing in the absence of messy emotions, Crowley found these moments of saudade to be crippling.

He needed more blood. The blood stopped the nausea. Living in the in-between just made him feel like he was adrift in a sea, thrown here and there by the feelings the blood had started. The fucking blood was something to tie his boat to. No, it didn't make it any less distressful and hurtful, but it gave him some bearing some solid ground to stand on while the sea raged around him.

And he needed the key because without it, he was no one, nothing. Just a crossroads demon who had lost his mojo, who had started feeling remorse. It was really only a matter of time before Abbadon asked the right questions to the right demons and ended up discovering where he had hidden it.

The walls were closing it and the escape routes were fewer and fewer. The key wasn't safe out there. It wasn't really safe with the Winchesters either, but there was something to be said about choosing the lesser evil. And Moose and Squirrel did have a tendency to want to save people. Having the key close to him, even if it was in their hands had to be better than hoping the key would stay out of Abbadon's hands in the wide world outside these blasted stone walls.

"Take the collar off and I'll tell you where to find the key."

Moose and Squirrel both looked over at him. "Tell us where to find the key and then we'll take the collar off," Dean said.

"Boys, boys, really. Collar first, then the key."

Sam stood and carefully walked behind him to unlocked the steel collar engraved with entrapping symbols. The thing irritated his skin and caused a constant headache with such powerful magic carved into it. When you piled that on the nausea from the blood withdrawal and the occasional beating from his two least favorite humans, Crowley was beginning to feel like shit. And that wasn't even taking into account the stress over his position in Hell being in such peril.

When the collar fell off, he took a deep breath and cracked his neck, leaning his head from one side to the other. "Fabulous, boys. Now the cuffs and we'll go get that key."

"Not a chance," Dean said, hands on his hips. "Put the collar back on, Sammy."

"Wait," Crowley said. "If you leave the collar off, I'll tell you where you can find it." It was the best he was likely to get from them.

"No," Sam said, walking back around the table to stand beside Dean.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "My hands are chained and I'm in a Devil's Trap. As much as I'd love to tell you two to fuck off and snap my fingers to get out of here, I can't. The collar is overkill, don't you think?"

They turned their backs on him and walked out of the room. Crowley bent his head down and tried to stifle the second wave of nausea. He needed blood, but he couldn't ask them for it. That would be admitting he wanted to be human again. And he didn't. He just wanted this roiling sea of emotions to stop and let him off. He tried to think of something to get them to stay, but nothing was coming to mind. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling on the floor and weeping.

After several long moments, he looked up to see them conferring just outside his cell. Their voices were hushed and he couldn't make out much. Finally, Sam stepped back inside the room and said, "Tell us where the key is and we'll leave the collar off."

Crowley swallowed the saliva in his mouth, hoping that would quell the feeling of being seasick. "Route 66 Casino just west of Albuquerque, New Mexico."

"What room?" Dean insisted.

"You mean who," Crowley corrected. "Her name is Hazel. She works the blackjack tables."

They took off immediately in search of the girl. Crowley stood up and stretched his arms above his head, straining his body from the tips of his fingers all the way to his feet. It felt good to move. And it felt bad to feel. He collapsed back into the chair and sighed. The room was dark with the exception of the faint light leaking between the edges of the cabinet doors that separated this room from the storage area beyond. Wearily, he rested the side of his face on the cool metal of the table.

She roused emotions in him. Not that he cared for her. Well, maybe he did care for her a little. Before the blood it was a passing interest. She intrigued him with her classic beauty, her naïveté, and her sense of humor. She tried to hide the sense of humor, though. Perhaps he intimidated her enough that it rarely came out to play.

She was one of those rare people who didn't waiver. Not that he couldn't tempt her-he had talked her into a kiss after all-but that she had a firm grasp of who she was. She might not think that, but he dealt in human souls; he could easily see it. Most people vacillated back and forth like some sort of fidgety, nervous creature, trying to find their way through life. She was still, static, conscious. It was something to behold and rarer than anyone would think. People like her didn't make deals with demons like him.

She's too good for me, he thought. The fucking blood. The blood gave him these horrible thoughts, the pathetic moments of self-pity and desperate longing. Crowley groaned and road another wave of nausea. How would he face her when the Winchesters finally got her here? She knew him as a powerful man who tempted her with lustful thoughts. Now he was tied up like an animal for the Winchesters to poke at and question, pump for information and bully into answers.

Crowley closed his eyes and pictured Hazel. She had light blonde hair that parted to the side. It swept over her left eye sometimes when she leaned forward and she'd push it back behind her ear absently. He'd felt how soft her hair was the night he'd kissed her. The memory made him lick his lips, remembering her sweet taste. Strength and desire laced with innocence. It was intoxicating, especially for someone like him.

Her eyes were a light green and striking with the way she painted on that black liner above them. Long lashes and a taupe-colored shimmery paint on her eyelids that paired well with the blush on her cheeks and the soft red of her lips. Porcelain skin made her full lips a wonder to behold. With lush curves, which were the height of beauty in his day, he wondered at why she seemed to shrink herself around people. It was like she wanted to be invisible. If she'd been born in the sixteen hundreds like him, she'd have been worshipped by every man alive. And she couldn't have possibly flown under the radar like she was trying to do now.

His intentions with her had been only passing interest at first. He'd watched her for weeks before laying on the charm and asking her upstairs. Her refusal shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did. She was so still with those wise eyes. She could see he was trouble, even if she was as intrigued as he was. When she crushed his plans for a night of passion, he pulled out his old crossroads tricks by offering a deal. Again, he should have known it wouldn't work. Her balance was unshakable.

What if Moose and Squirrel brought her back here and kept her to themselves? What if they found her as irresistible as he had? Desiring him, a demon, had gone against her nature, but she might like two heroic men her age who wanted to protect her. Hot jealousy spread through his body and he had to lift his head and work his jaw back and forth to keep from clenching his teeth together. He wouldn't tell them anything else until they brought her to him. Letting her see him like this wasn't ideal, but it was better than not seeing her and knowing she was with them.

Knowing the key was there with them, he corrected himself. Fuck the blood. The longing for her was just a symptom of the addiction. Just another thing to be repressed until it subsided and dissipated. But what would her blood feel like as it entered him? He moaned and pressed his forehead to the table.

Hazel had watched the door for weeks, but he never showed. He'd kissed her senseless, gave her some bullshit roleplay card with a fake number, and then disappeared from her life. Not that he'd ever really been IN her life, but still... She had been able to oogle him once or twice every couple weeks and that had been something at least. Something to keep her libido occupied since without him she was beginning to feel like a dried up old maid who would never be touch by another man again. And she wanted-needed-that feeling he'd given her, pushed up against the door of her car, surrounded by him, engulfed by his body and his mouth as he made her knees weak and brain scrambled.

She'd written a nearly pornographic short story that would have given any of that lame Fifty Shades knock-off literature a run for it's money, but that was about the extent of her accomplishments since Crowley had successfully left her sexually frustrated. Where was he now when she was inclined to accept his offer of a night in his penthouse suite? Gone, obviously. Like every other man in her life.

Charles, the floor manager, escorted her across the room with her bank so she could cash out and leave for the night. Hazel had resolved to go home and work on a short story that had nothing to do with HIM. Good intentions sometimes went awry, though.

She sat the box down on the table by the cage and stretched while Charles signed off on the chips. Just as she opened her mouth to wish him a good evening, Hazel felt a gust of air. It was either freezing cold or blazing hot; she couldn't tell which. Right after she felt it, she saw a stream of black smoke move with purpose through the hallway that led to the locker rooms. It was heading straight for her and Charles.

Before she could open her mouth to call out a warning, the black smoke narrowed and streamed right into Charles' open mouth. The power of it knocked her back against the wall. And just as soon as it began, it ended. "Charles, are you okay?" she asked when he turned around to face her. "What the hell was..." She trailed off when she saw his eyes. They were completely black, inky darkness that sent a chill down her spine. "Charles?" she whispered.

"Where's the key?" he said.

"What?" His eyes were still black, no white to them at all. It looked unnerving, unnatural. She found herself edging down the hall away from him.

"The key!" he screamed, stepping toward her. The fingers of his outstretched hand slipped around her throat, cutting off her scream.

Hazel flailed, panic setting in. There was something wrong with him, something bad. It was like he'd been possessed with the soulless eyes and the drastic change in demeanor. His grip wasn't easy to break; she only managed to do so by kicking at him and landing a hit to his groin. Hazel tumbled backward and landed on her ass. Using her hands and her heels she pushed herself down the hall, back toward the door that led to the casino floor. Another cloud of black smoke shot down the hallway headed straight for her face. She braced herself, throwing an arm up over her eyes, but no impact came. She peeked around her forearm to see the smoke spread out before her, as if she had an invisible wall around her body, protecting her.

After a long moment, the smoke shot off to the left and through the bars that protected the cage. Phillip, who worked in the cage, shouted in surprise and was overtaken by the smoke. It filtered in through his nose and mouth. Meanwhile, Charles had found his feet and was running toward her.

Hazel screamed and scrambled to get up off the floor. Just as she managed to push herself up, he hit her full force and they both tumbled to the ground. "Where is the key?" he demanded, pinning her down.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she screamed, trying to free herself. "Stop, Charles, stop!"

In an act of utter desperation, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into his forearm. "Fucking bitch," he hissed, bring a hand back and striking her on the side of her face. Hazel felt her teeth rattle and her cheek sting with the force of the impact. She was acting on pure survival instinct when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and jammed her knee up into his crotch again. When he reared back, she lifted her elbow up and smashed it into his nose. He sat back on his heels, holding his bleeding nose.

"What's all the commotion back here?"

Hazel look up to see a security guard in the doorway that led to the casino floor. "Help!" she yelled. "He attacked me." She pushed herself up to her feet and backed toward the security guard. "He's possessed," she said without thinking. The rational part of her brain knew possession was hocus pocus, but there was no other explanation for what had just happened.

The door to the cage opened and Phillip emerged with black eyes and a look of gleeful rage.

"What the fuck, Phillip," the guard said. "Your eyes..."

"Get her," Phillip growled at Charles.

Suddenly black, oily smoke poured out of Charles' eyes, nose, and mouth and streamed over to the security guard.

Knowing what was coming now, Hazel pushed past the stunned security guard and onto the casino floor. She didn't even think of what she must look like, stumbling across room in torn hose with blood on her white shirt. The only thought in her brain was that she needed to get OUT. Get out of the casino and away from whatever was in the black smoke.

She hit the front door at a run and nearly tripped when she stepped off the curb into the parking lot. Her keys were inside in her purse in the locker room. She couldn't get there without going through them. And there was no way she could go through them.

The parking lot had a few cars that belonged to hotel guests, but no one was out there to ask for help. And she didn't have a phone to call the police. The door banged open and she took off at a run, not even looking back to see who was in pursuit. Probably the security guard who had been taken over by the smoke. Or Phillip who seemed to be in charge.

"Oh my god," she muttered, running blindly across the nearly empty lot toward the road, hoping she could flag down a car before they reached her. "Help! Help!"

There were headlights ahead on the frontage road for the interstate. They were coming toward her, but she could hear the slaps of foot falls behind her and they were close. Too close for her to make it.

"Help!" she screamed, throwing her arms in the air and waving at the car before she looked over her shoulder and saw the guard and Phillip a few yards from her. Unfortunately, taking that peek allowed them to catch up with her. The guard grabbed her arm and whipped her around to face Phillip.

"I don't know what you want," she said, overwhelming panic in every single one of her words. "I don't have any key."

"Crowley spoke to you the last night he was here. He gave you the key," Phillip bit of each word like he was spitting them at her.

Crowley? What about him? "I-he didn't give me anything. I swear," she said. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Those black eyes had murder in them. "I swear," she repeated.

Before Phillip could reply, the sound of the far-away engine became overwhelming and the bright headlights illuminated his body. The front corner of a car hood slammed into his body, throwing him several yard away.

"What the hell," he guard said, throwing her to the ground and advancing on the car.

She pushed herself up to a seated position and watched two men emerge. One of them punched the guard before pulling a knife and shoving it in his stomach. There was a brilliant flash of white and then he crumpled to the ground. Phillip was back on his feet and grappling with the second man. The first, who had just stabbed the guard, ran over and shoved the knife in Phillip's back. Another burst of white light shown from around the knife before the body fell to the pavement.

Hazel got to her feet again and backed away from the two men approaching her. "I don't know where the key is!" she called out to them, her hands up in surrender.

"We're looking for Hazel. Are you Hazel?" the man closest to her said. In the light of the car's beams, she could see that he was around her age with hair that brushed the collar of his jacket.

"I-I don't know where the key is," she repeated, backing away again. "I swear."

"Hey, hey, hey," he said softly. "We're here to help. Are you Hazel?"

"Why?"

"I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean." He nodded over to the second man. Dean was slightly shorter than his brother with shorter hair as well. They were both drop-dead gorgeous. "Hazel, right?" Sam tried again.

"Um, yeah," she whispered.

"We're hear to help," Dean said. "We just didn't realize Abbadon had found you already."

"Abba-what?"

"Abbadon," Sam clarified. "She's the demon who sent those two."

"Demon?" Her head was spinning. "Wait, did-did you kill those guys? You-you stabbed them!"

"Woah, woah," Sam said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "They were demons; they were going to kill you."

"Oh my god. What is happening?" She threw his hand off her shoulder and folded her arms over her chest. "I-I can't deal with this. We need to call the police." As soon as she said it, she heard the sirens in the distance. "Oh thank you, thank you," she mumbled to the sky.

"Look, we have to get out of here," Dean said. When he reached out for her upper arm, she twisted away. "Come on, lady!" he yelled.

"What does this have to do with Crowley?" she asked, remembering that Phillip had mentioned him before these two guys showed up.

"You know Crowley?" Sam asked.

"Uh, no. Not really. He used to come in here a while back. I-I talked to him a couple times, but... no, I didn't know him."

"Hazel, we need to get out of here before Abbadon realizes her soldiers are gone," Sam said.

"But..." she whispered, letting him take her arm and lead her toward the car. It was hard to comprehend all that had happened.

The wind was picking up and the hair was standing up on the back of her neck. "She's coming," Dean called out, pulling open the back door of the car. "Get in fast. She'll kill you."

"Who?" Hazel asked Sam as he pushed her toward the car.

"Abbadon. She's a Knight of Hell."

"Hell doesn't exist," she told him.

"Unfortunately, it does," Sam muttered. As soon as she had slipped into the back seat, he ran around the front of the car and jumped into the passenger side. Dean was already behind the wheel and hitting the gas. For a moment, the tires spun on the asphalt before the car jumped forward.

"What is happening?" she asked once they were on the interstate again.

"Sit back. We've got a lot of 'splaining to do, Lucy," Dean said, his eyes glancing back at her in the rearview mirror.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley shifted in his chair and leaned his forearms on the table when he heard the sound of someone enter the storage room. The doors swung open to reveal the two Winchester brothers.

"Boys," he said in greeting. "Did you find my key?" How long had it been since they'd left? A day? Two? Three? Being locked in this room inside a Devil's Trap made it difficult to distinguish the passing of time.

"She didn't have it on her," Dean said.

"Where is she?" Crowley asked as his anxiety kicked up a notch. Why was he anxious? This human emotion was useless, a detriment to his ability to navigate a deal.

"Upstairs," Sam replied. "She has no idea what you dragged her into. She thought she'd lost her mind and we were crazy people to until we hit Delhi, Colorado. It took us three hundred miles to convince her that this was real."

"And Abbadon?" Crowley asked.

"She found her. We got there just as two soldiers had your girl pinned." Dean leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Hazel doesn't know what the key is. We searched her and couldn't find it," Sam said.

"Hazel IS the key, you moron," Crowley snapped.

"She's human," Sam replied. "She's not some key to the inner sanctum of hell."

Dean snorted. "He's full of shit, Sammy."

"Let me see her and I'll explain."

"No," both the boys told him. "Not a chance in hell," Dean continued.

"I'm IN a Devil's Trap. I have enchanted chains on my wrists. I can't hurt her, darlings. And even when I wasn't shackled, I didn't. So, bring her here."

"Yeah, and what if whatever you planted on her gives you some power to escape?"

"It's the key to Hell, not to this blasted room." Crowley hit the table with his fist. His emotions were running high. He'd spent hours, days thinking about HER. About the way she looked at him with those eyes, seeing everything and nothing at all. He'd tried to clue her into his true nature, but she didn't accept the knowledge. Strange how he was still drawn to her when she chose ignorance. Or perhaps she'd chosen innocence.

He need more blood. His twisted soul was adrift in a sea of human emotions, unfamiliar and overwhelming. The blood would anchor him to the ground, let him ride them out like a simpering human.

"She doesn't want to see you," Dean said, pushing himself off the wall and walking over to stand beside his brother.

"What?" Crowley asked. He hadn't expected to be hit with that.

"She's afraid," Sam said.

"I believe I owe her an explanation," Crowley replied, trying to keep his composure. There came that sweeping nausea. He couldn't think straight.

Dean leaned in and whispered something to Sam. The two of them left. The only consolation was that they'd left the doors opened. Crowley hoped against hope they were going to fetch her and bring her downstairs. Not that he was in any shape to receive her with his unkempt hair and disheveled clothes, never mind the shackles and the prison vibe.

Minutes ticked by. Maybe they were hours. The guilt was crushing him at the moment. Some days it was worse than others.

And then the door opened and Dean stepped into the storage room. When he moved aside, Crowley held his breath. Hazel walked inside the dusty room, her hands folded in front of her. A quick survey of her revealed a rip in her hose and a bloody knee, fingertip bruises blossoming on her porcelain neck, and spatters of blood on her white blouse. Oh, the fucking guilt.

When she finally looked forward and through the cabinet doors to where he sat in his little prison, she gasped.

"Hello, love," he said softly.

* * *

It took hours in the car with Dean and Sam before she didn't want to bolt out the door when they stopped at a gas station. At first she had denied, denied, denied. She'd refused to believe the grand stories they were telling her about demons and monsters and angels. It was too fantastical, even more so than her beloved science fiction stories. But the two brothers seemed matter-of-fact about it and very grounded in their own reality that included demon possession and apocalypses on the regular.

They swore up and down that they were there to protect her. They searched her pockets for a key. They made her roll the sleeves of her shirt up to prove that she wasn't hiding a key somewhere. Dean had even asked her to remove her shoes so he could look beneath the sole. And while it was all very over-the-top, something about it seemed genuine. There had to be a point where she stopped making excuses for the black smoke that had taken over the bodies of her co-workers and accepted the Winchester's assertions that demons had possessed those poor guys in order to get information from her.

Crowley was both the easiest and most difficult part of the puzzle to believe. He'd told her what he was, after all. He'd given her the card with his actual title. Or at least what Dean and Sam believed to be his actual title-King of Hell. And, oddly enough, believing that he was an otherworldly demon with powers beyond her comprehension made so much sense. The only thing that didn't make sense was why he had taken any interest in her.

Most of the drive to Kansas was spent listening to them give her the abridged version of the real state of the world. She'd asked her fair share of questions, though. And they had an answer that made sense for every single one, too. That was what made her decide to stop plotting her escape from their car and agree to go to their bunker. There was no hesitation, no disagreement, and no discrepancies between them when they answered her questions. They weren't making this up; it was their life. And their explanations were the only ones that fit what she'd seen in the past twelve hours.

"She was exhausted when they arrived at the bunker. She hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours and the only food she'd had was a burger at a fast food joint in Colorado. Their bunker was nicely appointed and spacious, even if it was a bit dated. She immediately collapsed into one of the chairs at the main table that seemed to be situated in the heart of the bunker.

"Beer?" Dean asked, walking past her.

"No, thanks. Can I have a glass of water?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied, continuing on to what was probably the kitchen.

"You okay?" Sam asked, standing across the table from her. "You look a little beat." He was carrying her small duffle bag that contained a few clothes and toiletries that she'd tossed inside before Dean and Sam had whisked her out of Albuquerque.

Hazel laughed softly under her breath. "I feel a little beat. I, uh, need to call into work. I'm supposed to be there in..." She checked her watch. "In, like, three hours."

"Yeah, sure." Sam handed her his cell phone. She dialed the casino's main number and asked for the floor manager. She didn't know if Charles would be there after what happened. Fortunately, he was, but he was very confused, asking Hazel if she knew what had happened to him the previous night.

"I, uh, I don't know, Charles." She looked up at Sam and he shook his head emphatically. "It was probably a bug," she offered.

"The police say they think it was a leak or something. Carbon monoxide, maybe. Made me and a couple other guys go crazy. Did I try to choke you?"

"Uh, yeah. But don't worry. It's no big thing."

"Shit, Hazel. I'm sorry." He paused before lowering his voice and saying, "Did you hear what happened to Phillip and Mike?"

She swallowed hard. "No, no I didn't. I ran out to the street and a couple guys picked me up right on the road, took me home. I thought you guys had lost it."

"They stabbed each other or themselves or something. They found their bodies out there by the road, too."

"Oh. Wow." She was a shit liar. "Why?"

"They think the leak made us go crazy. Nobody else was hurt, though. Were-were you hurt? The police are looking for you. They said to tell you to call them."

"No, I'm fine. I just hitched a ride home. Except a family thing came up. An emergency. I had to leave town and I'm not sure when I'll be back." Hazel cringed. She didn't even have any family beyond some distant relatives she never spoke to.

"Oh. I hope everyone is okay," Charles said. "Do you know when you'll be back?"

"Umm, no. A few days, I hope. Maybe a week?"

"Okay, keep me posted. We can hold your place here for a couple weeks, but then we'll need to look for a replacement. Remember to call the police station."

Hazel pulled in a deep breath. "Yeah, okay." She said her goodbyes and hung up.

"Am I going to be done in two weeks so I don't lose my job?" she asked Sam.

"Welcome to the turning point in your life. Nothing will be the same from now on," Dean said. He'd swept back into the room and sat a glass of water down in front of Hazel.

"Dean," Sam warned. "Give her a break."

"Just telling it like it is, Sammy. It's tough to go back to the day-to-day when you know what's actually going on."

"But I don't WANT to know."

"Don't you?" Dean asked.

She paused and really thought about it. She DID want to know. She couldn't just hide her head in the sand and pretend everything was hunky dory. She'd never been the type of person who fooled herself into thinking reality wasn't actually reality. "It's a lot to take in," she told him.

"Just give yourself some time," Sam said. He held up her bag. "I'm going to put this in one of the bedrooms down the hall. "You can crash here until we figure out what is going on."

"Yeah, it's too dangerous for you to be out there. Abbadon will be looking for you," Dean agreed.

Hazel tried to still the slight tremble in her hand as she reached for the glass of water. "This is crazy," she told Dean.

He shrugged. "Welcome to my world."

Sam came back in and pulled Dean to the side. They conferred in low tones, nothing audible to Hazel. She wasn't sure why she trusted the two of them, but she did. They seemed capable and competent and like they actually wanted to make sure she was safe. And if those black clouds of smoke were after her then she needed all the help she could get.

"Hazel," Sam said. "We have to go check on something. It'll just take a minute. We'll be right back."

"Okay," she replied, taking another sip of water. Once she was alone, she surveyed her surroundings a bit more intently, eventually wandering down the hall to find the bedroom they had stowed her duffle in. It was a small room, but comfortable with a bed, desk, plush chair, and an armoire. She unzipped the bag and placed her small case of toiletries and her brush on the desk.

Hazel took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, finally relaxing. She'd been tense since everything had happened at the casino-running away, fleeing with Dean and Sam, rushing to pack a bag, and then riding to Kansas while listening to them ruin the reality of her carefully constructed world.

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her ripped black hose and the smeared blood on her less-than-fresh white dress shirt. She'd long ago untied the bowtie and let it hang loosely around her neck. Maybe when they returned she could have them direct her to the shower and then she could get some rest. It wasn't like she was able to help or provide information.

"Hey," Sam said, entering the room with Dean. "We need to ask you something."

He seemed worried and so did Dean. "What?" she asked.

"We captured Crowley a while back and we're holding him in a Devil's Trap in another room here," Dean said.

Hazel felt her eyes widen. "What?"

"He's in cuffs and he can't escape."

"You-you abducted him? Like me?"

"He's a demon. We trapped him and shackled him," Dean replied.

"You have him tied up in this bunker?"

"Chained up," Dean corrected.

"Oh my god, this is crazy," Hazel whispered, putting a hand on her forehead.

"Hey, he's a bad guy. A demon," Sam said, squatting down beside her. "He's responsible for what happened to you and why Abbadon is trying to hunt you down."

"But he didn't give me anything at all. I don't know why everyone thinks I have a key."

"Which is why we need him to tell us how you're involved," Dean said.

"And he won't tell us until he talks to you," Sam added.

Hazel shook her head. "Why does he want to talk to me?"

"It's a power play," Dean said. "But you'll be fine. He can't leave the Devil's Trap and he can't hurt you. Just remember not to let him bait you or get you upset."

"I don't know what to say to him," she replied.

"We'll be there," Sam replied. "Are you okay with going in there with us and asking him where the key is?"

"Do I get my life back if we find out where the key is?"

"Probably not the way it was," Dean said.

Hazel scrunched her nose up. "Will Abba-whatever stop trying to kill me?"

"Maybe."

She sighed. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it."

As they led her further into the bunker, she tried to calm her nerves. As much as she didn't want to confront Crowley, part of her had an overpowering urge to see him. That old attraction was hard to shake and she couldn't quite reconcile who they said Crowley was with the person who had flirted with her on more than one occasion.

She was expecting him to look different-scary with horns and red skin or maybe black eyes like the demons who had attacked her at the casino. Instead, when Dean stepped aside to let her enter the storage room behind him, she looked up and saw HIM. The same old Crowley, sitting in a small dark room in a metal chair with a metal table in front of him.

"Hello, love." His tone was exact, just as she'd remembered it every single time he'd said it n the past.

"Hi," she mumbled, walking past shelves of boxes and into the room Crowley was occupying. She kept her eyes down so he couldn't catch her gaze.

"My sincerest apologies for the incident at the casino." He knew everything to say to make her feel like he was a nice guy, not a demon.

Hazel stopped just inside the door. "You don't seem like one of them," she told him.

"I'm much more civilized, love." His placed his hands on the table and she could see the silver cuffs glint in the low light.

She turned, looking for support from Sam or Dean. "Are you sure he's a..."

"Yeah, he's definitely a demon," Dean said. "Show her."

"Whatever do you mean, Squirrel?"

"Show her your eyes. Your real eyes."

"These are my real eyes."

Dean took Hazel's upper arm in his had. "Okay, let's go."

"No!" Crowley's voice cut across the room. When Hazel glanced up at him in shock, his eyes flickered to red. No white, no iris, no pupil. Just solid, blood red that sent a chill down her spine.

"Holy shit," Hazel mumbled, backing out of the room. Sam stopped her with his hands outstretched in front of him. "He's-his eyes..."

"He's a crossroads demon," Sam explained from behind her. "They usually have red eyes. The run-of-the-mill demons have black eyes."

"You were serious with me when you told me you could give me a bestseller," Hazel said, finally meeting Crowley's gaze.

Crowley's eyes reverted to normal. "Of course I was. Are you reconsidering?"

"No," she said immediately. "Why me?"

"Why not you?"

She took a few steps forward, stopping just inside the door of the dungeon. "I'm nothing special. Why drag me into this?"

Crowley shrugged. "Honestly, I didn't intend to. You were just an insurance plan in case these two," he nodded at Dean and Sam, "decided to pull a fast one on me. And, as expected, they did."

"Why even talk to me, though? I told you no."

"Are you referring to my asking you to have sex with me or offering the deal for your soul?"

"What?" Dean and Sam both said at the same time.

Hazel felt the blush spread across her cheeks. "Both."

"You're my type."

"And what type is that?"

"Beautiful and strong-willed."

She opened her mouth, but had no response. It wasn't everyday that someone hit her with a complement like that. But he was a demon and he was probably trying to do anything he could to get out of the room.

"Cut it out," Dean said. "Stop hitting on her and tell us where the key is."

"I told you, moron, she IS the key."

"I'm not a key," Hazel said, trying to still her fluttering nerves. She felt frightened and anxious, yet still had that unnerving attraction to him as he sat there calmly. His eyes were trained on her and they didn't waver.

"I'm afraid you are, darling. You're the only thing securing my position at the moment with that bitch Abbadon running about."

"Well, take it away," she demanded.

"Too dangerous for me," he replied.

"And it's too dangerous for her, Crowley," Sam said, walking into the room and around to the side of the table. "We'll keep the key safe here without her being involved."

"Too risky," Crowley said, shifting his gaze from Hazel to Sam and then back again. "Besides, I could use a little company besides you two. I like that we have a houseguest."

"Fine, we'll torture it out of him." Dean's voice was a growl.

"Torture?" Hazel asked just as Crowley said, "You think you can do anything to me I haven't done myself?"

"Let's look at the Men of Letters' library and see if we can find out how to remove it," Sam offered. "Come on, Hazel. Let's go."

"And leave me all alone, love? Pull up a chair and catch me up." Crowley's voice was deep with a velvety quality to it. Just enough growl on top of all that smooth silk to arouse.

It was hard to shift gears in her head and think of him as a demon-which she hadn't believed existed until a few hours ago-and not a successful businessman who liked to flirt with the hired help. She wished she could go back to the days when he was human and she could indulge in fantasies that involved them having passionate sex on a king size bed. Now he was in chains with red eyes and had cursed her with some key that put a price on her head.

"No," she told him. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"You're breaking my heart, love."

"You don't have one, asshole," Dean snapped. "Come on, let's go."

Hazel took two steps back, unable to break eye contact with Crowley. There was something magnetic about him. And for a moment she saw a flash of something in his eyes. He looked desperate, broken, scared. It almost made her reconsider. But then Dean was in front of her, sliding the shelves that acted as doors into place. There was a thin crack where they met, but all she could see in the other room was darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Guilt. It has been decades-centuries-since he'd been burdened with that particular emotion. It had taken some quiet reflection in his dungeon prison to place it. The passage of time was vague, indefinite, so it could have taken minutes or hours or days to pinpoint what was causing the heaviness within him. Regret had become a familiar friend since the church and those blasted syringes of Moose's blood. Regret of many things he had done or ordered done.

But guilt hadn't been consuming him until now. It was like his brain was relearning how to feel these emotions and the reemergence of them left him floundering for a way to cope. She was unwavering, a pillar in a world of swirling people who didn't know who they were and what they wanted. And he took advantage of that by trying to pull her down into his mess. He should have left her alone and let her live her life. Find her own success and a man who would appreciate the weight of knowing in her eyes. Not to mention her lush body that she was so self-conscious of.

Crowley let his head fall back. The ceiling was pitch black above him. Why was he waxing poetic about her? She was a cog in the system, another piece of be used in this game of chess. And yet she was all he could think about right now. It made it worse to know that she was likely only yards away within this very structure, reading or writing or eating or sleeping. Or talking to the Winchesters. The thought dulled the guilt and replaced it with a more familiar emotion-jealousy. Jealousy felt better, stronger. None of that simpering guilt or longing.

The fucking longing. He blamed the blood for that. The blood had infected him with these stupid human emotions like guilt and regret and longing. There was the more carnal longing to hold her down and fuck her, feel her gripping him with her little hands, shapely legs, and that tight place between her thighs. That longing sat in his mind comfortably because it was something the demon in him could relate to. The other longing, the one that infiltrated his thoughts with images of her held reverently in his arms, her fingertips tracing patterns on his skin, her eyes looking at him with acceptance and...

Crowley felt uncontrollable panic rise up in his mind. Love. Acceptance and love. Those were wishes of humans. He wanted power. Power and the ability to instill fear in those who served him.

He slammed his fists on the table, the chains making a hollow metallic clang as they smacked off the metal. Love. It caused such heaviness in his chest. But his craving for it was all an illusion. He hadn't been capable of feeling that since... since he was a child, really. Certainly not since he was a miserable, pathetic human.

Maybe more blood would make him feel better. And maybe it would just make this state of heightened emotions even worse.

Before he grab back onto that sanity-saving thread of jealousy over her spending time with the Winchesters, he felt a tingling presence of someone in the room beyond his dungeon. The Winchesters had a certain feel to them and this was different; this was HER. Crowley opened his mouth to call out for Hazel, but thought better of it. She was slippery, easily lost, at this moment. Any move from him could shut her down and scare her away.

After what felt like hours, he heard the unmistakable sound of the shelves being pulled back to reveal his torture chamber. She was in a pair of faded jeans that had seen better days and a white T-shirt. So simple and yet so alluring. She didn't have to try to get his attention. Her hair was slightly damp and framed her face nicely. And her eyes were huge, frightened, uncertain.

"Hello, love," he said softly, hiding his shackled hands beneath the table.

"I heard a bang. Are you okay?" She was standing in the doorway. He wanted her to come closer. Not so he could hurt her or use her to contrive a way out of his prison, but just so he could smell her and feel her body. The realization made him feel disgust at his sorry state. He should be thinking of ways to use her, but he just couldn't seem to muster the ability.

"Just a bit frustrated. I can't beat my hands against the walls, so I use the table." See, he thought, remember I can't leave his Devil's Trap, darling. Remember I'm trapped and come a little closer.

And she did. She took one tentative step into the room and then another. "When did you put the key on me?"

Crowley flashed her what he hoped was a friendly, unassuming smile. But with the warring emotions in his fucked up head, it may have just come across as a grimace. "Do you forget so easily, love?"

"When you kissed me," she said, taking another step closer. Her nearness was like a balm to his burned up mind.

"When I kissed you," he agreed. "Although, I believe you kissed me as well."

Hazel's cheeks flushed and she looked away. She crossed her arms over her chest, but all that did was press her tits up and together, making the cleavage showing in the V of her T-shirt that much more enticing.

Crowley licked his lips. "How long has it been?"

The question made her turn her gaze back to him. "What do you mean?"

"I've been trapped in here for some time. How long has it been?"

She seemed to consider the danger of proving information before finally saying, "A couple months, I think. Since the kiss," she clarified.

THE kiss. Yes. Her lips were so pink, so lovely. "And since you were attacked?"

"By the other demons? That was on Wednesday night. I got here on Thursday afternoon."

"And it is Friday?"

"Saturday."

"Time flies when you're locked in a dungeon," he replied with another smile he hoped was disarming.

"They tried to get into me. The smoke did."

Ah. He smiled. "The key is too powerful. Rest assured you can't be possessed while it is on you. Not even by me."

She stepped up to the edge of the Devil's Trap. The toes of her bare feet were no more than an inch from the engraved sigil. "You really can't leave this circle?" she asked.

"Alas, I cannot."

"Are you really that dangerous?"

For a moment he considered telling her that he was practically harmless and the Winchesters were reactionary bullies that chained him and trapped him because they wanted information he had. But she'd never believe him. She was too smart and too insightful. And then any good will she had toward him-because it was obvious she had some if she was checking on him-would be gone. "I'm very dangerous, love. I'm a demon. I can move things with my mind, disappear with a snap of my fingers, tip a car over with one hand, snap a person's neck with just a thought."

She didn't move, standing her ground at the edge of the circle. Crowley wanted to smile, but he didn't. This was a serious conversation and smiling at her would scare her off. "And you could do all that when I saw you in the casino all those times?"

"Yes."

"And the people you were meeting there? They were demons? Or were they people you had made deals with?"

"Demons. Underlings who were following my orders."

"Which is why you didn't mind keeping them waiting the night we had drinks at the bar."

Crowley nodded. "Yes."

"If you're so powerful, why did you talk to me? Did you plan on cursing me with this key the whole time? You were just... just preparing?"

"I didn't plan on giving you the key until the night I did. The other times were just... fun. You're interesting, removed from those around you in a strange way."

"I don't understand," Hazel said, shifting her weight from one foot to another. The movement jutted her left hip out, accentuating her delicious curves. If he weren't shackled, then he'd show her another thing he could do: remove all her clothes with a blink of his eyes.

Crowley leaned back in his chair. "Most humans are quivering little souls that don't know who they are. They bounce back and forth, looking for purpose or reason, fame or peace, money or happiness. You're very still. Very centered. I find it... magnetic."

"But I'm not. I'm not still or centered. I'm not... happy." The last word fell off the sentence. It was as if it slipped out of her mouth when she really didn't want to admit such a thing to him, the big bad demon.

"There are few humans who have a firm grasp on their selves. You're one of them; it's probably why you didn't accept my deal. You didn't even consider it, did you?"

Hazel shifted again. That swell of cleavage contained by her T-shirt was enticing. He wished she would come closer. "No, I didn't. It was silly; I didn't even believe you had the ability to make a deal like that."

"And now that you know I can hold up my side of the bargain?"

She scoffed. "No, why would I sell myself? That's... cheap."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Cheap?"

"Fame and money. Accolades from people who don't really matter to me. That's a cheap price for who I am as person."

He smiled. "Most people don't think that way, darling. Most people would say yes in a second."

"Most people are crazy, then."

His smile got bigger. "Which is why you're different and why I was drawn to you."

She rolled her eyes. "And here I thought you wanted to..." She trailed off, unable to articulate what she was thinking. He knew what was running through her mind, though.

"What, love? Slide my tongue into your mouth while I slip between your luscious legs and fuck you until you beg me for more? Oh, I did. I do."

Her breathing quickened, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. She was practically edible. If she would just come closer then he could put her on the table in front of him, pull her jeans down her legs and lick her until she screamed for him. And then the Winchesters could run and in know that she belonged to him, that every single inch of her was his.

Instead, she turned away and that wave of longing hit him like a freight train. The jaunts into other realms of feeling-lust, jealousy, anger, frustration-they were just diversions from the deeper problem. His emotions were out of control.

"Don't be so crude," she said, her back turned to him. Finally, she turned around again and let her hands hang down at her sides. She was framed in the light from the storage room and the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, and the beautiful, timeless arcing curve of her hips tampering into her thighs was thing to behold. "Your powers-is that why the man in the parking lot was so afraid of you?"

His head was fuzzy, but embracing his desire for her was better than allowing his longing and guilt to cut in. "What man?"

"The night you kissed me. The man in the parking lot who grabbed me."

Crowley dropped his gaze. Anything but the truth would come back to bite him in the ass with her. "He was working for me. I told him to scare you."

"Why?"

"So you'd let me walk you to your car."

"So you could stick this-this key on me?" Her voice was higher, tinged with anger, incredulity.

"I was in a precarious position and I needed insurance that everything I worked for wouldn't be taken away."

"But why me?"

"Because I wanted to see you." Crowley snapped his mouth shut after he said it. That hadn't been what he wanted to say. That had been too close to the truth.

"But why?" Her eyes were hard, angry.

The truth, he decided. It had to be the truth. Maybe this blood was making him soft. "Because I wanted an excuse to come back to the casino."

"You didn't need an excuse," she said softly. Was that tenderness in her voice? The tone of it made his heart ache. And that made him nauseous, disgusted with himself and this weakness that he'd been afflicted with.

"You didn't want to deal with me. You didn't want to defile yourself with me. I can't very well just keeping stopping by to chat with you, love. I've got a business to run and a reputation to maintain."

"Oh." She seemed disappointed, the simple syllable falling from her lips and dropping to the floor, dejected. She turned away and took two steps toward the door.

Panic rushed through his veins. Panic that she would leave him alone again. That he'd end up sitting here in the dark thinking about her, longing for the feel of her body, desperate for her... acceptance. He had to hit the breaks on that train of thought before his mind replaced acceptance with love. "Hazel."

She looked over her shoulder. A strand of blonde hair had fallen over her eye and she swiped it away.

He couldn't think of a damn thing to get her to stay. "Will you come see me tomorrow?"

"Dean and Sam will be back tomorrow. They don't want me talking to you."

Ah, so the Winchesters were gone. That's why they'd had this uninterrupted time together. For a moment he considered asking her to let him stretch his arms by removing the shackles, but he knew she wouldn't do it. And then she'd distrust him even more than she currently did.

"I don't sleep. I just sit down here and think. It's enjoyable to have someone to talk to." It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but enough for her to accept it without question.

"Maybe," she said before stepping into the storage room and pushing the doors closed.

* * *

Hazel's hands were shaking, but she wasn't sure why. It was probably because she'd just had a conversation with a demon who claimed to be the King of Hell. Except now he was chained up in a secret room in a secret bunker that she'd been trapped in herself for over two days. The place was too quiet when Sam and Dean were gone. They'd left the previous day after getting a phone call. They promised they would be back in a couple days and made her promise not to get near Crowley's room. And that was a promise she'd broken.

She tried to fool herself into thinking that she'd gone in there to check on him after hearing the bang, but the truth was much simpler. She'd gone in there because she was curious. The man who had been fueling her fancies for months was shackled yards from where she was sleeping and she wanted to know whey he'd pulled her into this mess.

His answer sounded truthful, but he was a demon. And according to all the books and diaries and research journals of the men who had built this bunker, demons were not to be trusted. And she'd done a lot of reading since she'd arrived. There wasn't much else to do.

She sat down at the table in the center of the bunker and flipped open a journal with pages yellowed from age. Instead of reading it, her mind drifted to Crowley and the way he looked at her. The way her body reacted to his innuendoes and his blatantly lustful comments. It annoyed her that she still found him attractive, but there was just something about him she couldn't shake. Something in the way he looked at her that made her wonder about his true nature.

Maybe it was all a carefully constructed persona to entice her to unchain him, to help him escape. Well, that wasn't going to happen. He'd admitted to what he could do if he wasn't contained. And she wasn't vain enough to think that his proclaimed attraction to her would save her life if he wanted to snap her neck and make a run for it. Then again, there was a flicker of life in those eyes-something that looked painful and desperate. Something that looked haunted.

She'd never been one for bad boys, but this particular bad boy certainly wouldn't leave her thoughts. Again, she was annoyed with herself for being so typical as to lust after a guy who would probably step on her neck to get ahead. Guys like him-demons, she corrected herself-didn't actually care about anyone, especially not someone like her, despite what he'd said about her being special. Special, her ass. She was as ordinary as they came.

* * *

The only way she knew it was nine o'clock in the morning was the display on the cell phone Sam had given her. It illuminated the dark bedroom, showing an incoming call.

"Hello?"

"Hazel?" It was Sam's voice.

"Sam?"

"Hey, we're going to be another day or two here."

"Where?"

"Havana, Illinois. We've got a werewolf on the loose and we need to find him."

Just when she thought she was used to hearing about all these monsters being real, someone said something like this and her mind reeled back, confused and unwilling to believe. "Oh, okay."

"You okay?"

She nodded and sat up in bed. "Yeah."

"Remember to stay away from Crowley."

"Okay."

"We'll be back soon."

She swept her hair back from her face. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you in a day or two."

And then he hung up and she was alone in this tomb of a building. The desire to go outside for a breath of fresh air was not as strong as her fear that the minute she stepped out the door a cloud of black smoke would swoop down upon her and she'd find herself fighting for her life. And she was definitely not a fighter.

Instead of braving the outside world, she took a shower and poured herself a bowl of cereal. While her hair air-dried, she read about the methods of avoiding demon possession and how to extract a demon from a human body without damage to the physical vessel. Sometimes she found herself reading the material as if it were a horror story. And then she remembered that this was real life now. Demons existed and there was one just down the hall.

Instead of continuing with the two texts on the table in front of her, she walked over to the library and found the section detailing the historical origins of known demons. The Men of Letters had a meticulous card catalog that she'd familiarized herself with on the first full day in the bunker. If she couldn't fight, then she could read and at least know what the hell was going on in her life now. There was a large tome that contained a list of demons and any facts about them that had been gathered over the years. She pulled it out and sat down to satisfy her curiosity, but not without some trepidation. What if she learned something she didn't want to know? Then again, all knowledge was good, right? Especially if your life might depend on it.

It was alphabetized and after a brief moment of hesitation, she flipped to the C's and then turned pages one by one until she came across the name Crowley. Part of her had believed she wouldn't find his name in there, but that she had and she had no choice but to read it.

 _Crowley, the most powerful crossroads demon known to us, is believed to have been Fergus Roderick McLeod. McLeod was born in 1661 to a witch named Rowena of the Grand Coven. Though there is no evidence, testimonies indicate Rowena was abusive to her child. After an uneventful life as a tailor, McLeod made a deal with an unknown crossroads demon to increase his penis size by three inches. Upon his death in 1723, his soul was collected and sent to hell as per the agreement. McLeod took on the name of Crowley and the first documented interaction with him was in 1804._

 _Crowley is considered to be the leader of the crossroads demons. While he can appear civil and fair, he should be considered extremely dangerous. He has extraordinary strength, the ability to perform feats of telekinesis, teleportation of not only himself but others, pyrokinesis, and invisibility. There are two documented instances of Crowley resurrecting deceased humans. He is also adept at spell-casting, assumedly due to his mother's position in the Grand Coven._

Following the text were several lines citing references books that contained the more detailed accounts of Crowley's interactions with humans. Hazel pulled in a deep breath and flipped the book shut. She didn't need to read any more to know that what he'd told her had been true and she was in over her head. Staying in this bunker, knowing he was chained up only yards away was unnerving.

She retreated to her bedroom and got dressed-jeans and a worn band T-shirt that was faded from too much use. After pacing around the table for a few minutes, she walked up the stairs and gingerly touched the latch to the bunker door. Slowly, she unlocked it and cracked open the heavy door. The mid-day sun was high overhead and the terrain offered no respite from it.

Pushing the door open a little more, she stuck her head out while she held her breath. No black smoke. No demons trying to kill her. Just the flat, almost barren miles of Kansas stretched out before her. Before anything could go wrong, she quickly shut the door and locked it. The breath or two of fresh air had done her good. She felt reconnected with the world and not quite so lost. So, things were different. Demons existed and all the tales she'd heard of monsters might be true. Okay, mental adjustment was necessary and then she could move on and see how she could deal with this new reality.

She sat down to read more about expelling demons from their hosts, but all she could think about was Crowley and how he was sitting in a metal chair in a dark room just down the hall. She could still see that look in his eyes when he'd asked her to come see him the next day. And even though she knew he could be manipulative and conniving, she still found it difficult to shake the thought that he might feel very alone. And how could he hurt her if he was chained and contained within the Devil's Trap on the floor.

She drank the last few drops of water in her glass and pushed herself up from the table. Down the hallway were a few doors. The one at the end led to the storage room. And the shelves on the far wall opened to what Dean and Sam called the dungeon. Really, it was just a dark room with chains on the walls and a Devil's Trap on the floor, inlayed in brass.

Slowly, he pulled open the shelves to allow the light in the storage room to spill over across the table and Crowley himself. He blinked and gave her one of those smiles that looked so genuine.

"Hello, love." His customary greeting that made her feel just a little special. Like she meant something to him. Obviously, it was just a tactical phrase he used to make her feel that way. His beard was rough and speckled with gray. He looked tired, but not as tired as he should have looked after being locked up for over two months.

"Is your name really Fergus McLeod?"

He visibly recoiled at the question, but recovered very quickly. "Have you been reading about me, love?"

"I take that as a yes," she replied.

"Yes, once upon a time people called me that. It's been a very long time, though. And I like my current name better. More fitting, don't you think?"

"Why do you not like the name Fergus?"

He dropped his gaze. "Fergus was weak. I'm glad to be done with that portion of my existence."

Hazel dragged the second chair away from the wall and positioned it just outside the circle. "Do you miss being human?"

"No." His reply was a bit to fast. "My life as a human was lacking in anything enjoyable."

"Maybe that was your fault."

"Maybe it's your fault you're not happy," he snapped. And then he smiled and said, "Forgive me, love. You're poking at some old wounds."

"What was your life like, then?" she asked, crossing her legs, not realizing that her foot was inside the circle.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

He knew she'd crossed into the circle the second it happened. For a brief moment, he considered taking advantage of that. There was a chance he could push the table out of the way and grab her foot before she recoiled. The thought flashed through his mind when he looked up and saw her watching him with that intensity, that focus that was so unnerving. No one asked him questions like she'd just asked.

"What?" he dumbly said.

"What was your life like when you were human?"

Fuck it, he thought. What good would grabbing her do for him? The Winchesters weren't here so he couldn't use her as a bargaining chip. She didn't have the keys to the shackles on him. Could he steal a kiss, stoke some of that fire that she'd kindled in him? Sure. He could force her to pleasure him if he really wanted, but that seemed unappealing. He'd always preferred willing participants.

"It was unpleasant and too long."

She frowned. "That's sad. I'm sorry."

Such simple statements, but they cut right through him and these jumbled emotions Moose's purified blood had kicked up. He couldn't find any words to respond, an unusual problem for him. Instead, he sat there and met her steady gaze.

Hazel tilted her head to the side. "Your mother was a witch?"

"More like a bitch," Crowley replied. She certainly had been reading up on him. What kind of notes had the Winchesters dug up in this dump?

"You didn't like her? She wasn't a nice person?"

"She hated me."

Her eyes softened and he felt an overwhelming urge to crawl to her, to put his head in her lap and take whatever comfort she could give. Comfort was an unfamiliar thing, but he craved it. Perhaps because it had been few and far between during his life as a human and his existence as a demon. There was no comfort in hell.

"I'm sorry to hear that, too. Do you think that's why you sold your soul?"

"I sold my soul to make my cock bigger," he said, the vicious quality to his voice barely hiding his vulnerable position.

"Is it?"

Crowley smiled at her question. "Would you like to see it, love?"

She shook her head. "No. But I'll take that as proof that selling your soul worked. What's hell like?"

"That would depend on what your fears are and what would break you. What would break you, darling Hazel?"

She shrugged. "Probably what would break most other people. Constant loneliness, never being loved, and spiders."

"You're not lonely, are you, love?"

"I think most people are lonely, even if they are surrounded by people."

This was a bad conversation to have when he was fighting these fucking emotions. One minute he wanted to pull her into the circle and rip her clothes off and the next minute he wanted to lay his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair. The tips of her fingers would probably feel amazing against his scalp.

When he didn't immediately respond to her, she said, "Are you lonely?"

"I'm bored out of my mind in here."

"But you're lonely. You asked me to come visit you."

"That I did." He shifted in the chair and watched her body tense. She was wary of him, ready to bolt if anything happened that put her in danger. He could smell her fear and her curiosity. "Do you think you could do me another favor, darling?"

Hazel's eyes narrowed in shrewd calculation. "What?"

"You see, I'm so thirsty."

"Oh, I'll get you a glass of water."

"Not for water," he said. He paused, trying to figure out the best way to approach the question without scaring her away. "I need a bit of a blood transfusion."

She shook her head. "I don't think I understand."

"Demons crave humanity sometimes. And I've been locked in here so long that I need a little hit."

"What does that have to do with a blood transfusion?"

"The Winchesters have a black pouch somewhere in this place. It holds syringes. I'd be forever in your debt if you would fill a syringe up with your lovely blood and toss it in here to me."

He watched the confusion on her face turn to mild disgust. Fuck. "You want to drink my blood?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. "I want to inject it."

She watched him for a long moment before saying, "No. What if it gives you powers that allow you to escape?"

"You've obviously been reading all about demons lately. Have you read anything about the effects of human blood?"

"That doesn't mean you wouldn't hurt me."

"I haven't hurt you," he replied.

"You haven't had a chance."

"I had many chances, love. Each night I saw you at the casino, especially the night I walked you to your car."

"You did hurt me. You cursed me with some key and now people are trying to kill you."

"I slipped a key in your pocket in hopes you would keep it safe. And you did. Besides, I could hurt you now. Your foot is in the trap." He shifted his eyes down to the foot that was connected to the shapely leg crossed over her other thigh.

Hazel's gaze followed his down. When she saw that he was telling the truth, she jerked back, uncrossing her legs and standing up. The chair fell over behind her and clattered against the stone floor.

"See? I'm practically a Boy Scout, darling. Won't you help me? Consider a syringe of your blood my sustenance to make it through another month or two. I might perish without it."

She looked shaken. "I... No, I can't. Why didn't you try to grab me?"

"The truth?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"Because I don't want you to hate me. And because I don't want you to stop coming here to talk with me." He paused. "And because it wouldn't have helped me get out of here."

"But aren't you demons all about chaos and killing?"

Crowley chuckled darkly. "Love, you've got it all wrong. I'm a businessman. Do I get my hands dirty when need be? Sure. But I'd rather use my wits."

"Oh, great. A civilized demon with manners," Hazel said dryly.

"Do I get a syringe of blood for being such a good boy?"

She sat the chair up with shaky hands and moved toward the door. "No, sorry. But thank you for not... killing me."

The doors slid shut with the usual scraping sound. Crowley closed his eyes and tried to push her from his mind. Why did she come in here to chat about his life as a human? Why had she thanked him with all the sincerity in her voice? Why did he wish he could crawl into her bed, even if they kept their clothes on?

* * *

He sat in dark silence for hours, probably an entire day, waiting for this moment in which he heard her light footsteps crossing the storage room. Crowley closed his eyes and smiled. Yes. When he opened them she was standing in the doorway with a glass of water.

"Do you drink water?" she asked.

"Water and food are not necessary."

"Oh, I guess I should have known. I mean, you've been in here for days and they didn't tell me I had to feed your or anything."

Crowley leaned forward and pressed his forearms onto the table. "A drink would be nice, though."

"A drink of water," she clarified.

He grinned. "Yes, a drink of water." She was so jumpy and it was enjoyable to watch her try to navigate him.

"Do you promise not to hurt me if I come closer and put this glass on the table?"

He swept his eyes down her body. Another white T-shirt and a pair of black pants that hugged every one of her curves like a second skin. "I promise, love."

Hazel stepped into the room and hesitated for a brief moment before crossing the barrier of the Devil's Trap. She gingerly placed the glass of water in the middle of the table before pulling back. She was still in the circle, but she was nervous, her heart pounding. He watched her try to suppress a jerk when he leaned forward and picked up the glass, taking a long drink of the cool water. He didn't need it, but it was refreshing and felt good in his mouth.

"Thank you, darling. I'm in your debt."

"You've been in my debt. Remember? I'm carrying around your key."

"Would you like me to show you where it is?"

"Yes," she replied, wringing her hands anxiously.

He smiled. "Come here."

"No," Hazel said, taking two steps back. She was out of the Devil's Trap and standing on the edge of it now.

"Don't you trust me?"

"You haven't exactly earned my trust. And I've read about some pretty horrible things you've done."

"I'm a changed demon-a good boy now," he said before taking another drink. He saw her eyes drop to his lips, so he rolled his tongue out and wet the bottom one, watching her through his lowered lids. "Don't you think I'm a good boy? I didn't even touch you when you were so close. I asked nicely for you to come closer."

"You're not a good boy," she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

"I could be. Why don't you come sit on the table here and I'll show you how good I can be. I'll run my tongue down your body, from your sweet lips to that deliciously wet spot between your thighs. It can be our little secret." He shifted his hips in the chair. Thinking about what he'd just promised her was making him hard.

She was aroused as well. He could see in in her quickened breathing and her flushed cheeks and the tension in her thighs. She licked her lips nervously. "You're shameless," Hazel told him.

"Mmm, absolutely, love. I want you."

"You want leverage. You want to escape."

"I do. But I want you, too."

She shook her head. "Stop it. I feel like you do this to distract me so you can avoid a real conversation."

He watched for a long moment, weighing his options. She was right, of course. A real conversation, as she put it, would only serve to fuck his mind up even more. Yesterday he'd been fantasizing about letting her hold him, comfort him. Disgusting. He needed blood and then he needed to fuck her and get her out of his system. Now.

Instead, he said, "What do you want to talk about?"

She pulled the chair closer, still outside the circle, and sat down. "I saw notes that Sam left sitting out. Something about how to save a demon-make them human again."

Crowley felt his stomach drop. Fuck. "Not possible," he snapped.

"Well, I was thinking that maybe that's what they tried to do to you since you were asking me for blood yesterday." Her stunning green eyes held his gaze.

For a moment he considered lying. It just seemed that each time he came to a fork in the road with her and he had to choose the truth or a lie, he always seemed to choose the truth. Lying to her would get him nowhere and the truth got him closer to her. She'd stepped into the trap today, hadn't she? "Yes, Sam injected me with his blood."

"Did it make you more human?"

"I'm obviously still a demon, love. What do you think?"

"I mean, did it make you feel things? Regret, guilt, sadness, loss, longing?"

The last word blurred his vision and a wave of nausea swept over him. How did she know? How did she cut right through him? "What do you think?" he asked.

"Sometimes you seem sad or scared or lonely when I look at you."

Crowley wanted to groan and crawl under the table. He thought he'd been doing a better job of hiding it. The Winchesters hadn't seen it. Or at least they didn't let on that they had. "I'd rather not discuss it, darling."

She nodded. "I'll take that as a yes." Hazel's head tilted to the side, compassion written on her face. No one had ever looked at him that way. It made his heart ache. If he could just touch her now... She was out of his reach, though. "I'm so sorry, Crowley," she whispered. "It must be hard to go through this with all you've done."

"You don't know what I've done," he replied. He felt like a dog who had been backed into a corner. Flight wasn't an option and the only choice he has left was to fight, to snap at her outstretched hand. "I've killed and tortured and maimed and I've loved it."

"You're a product of your environment," she said softly.

"Don't give me that hippy bloody shit," he snapped. "I made choices that shaped who I am."

"I read about your mother. She treated you horribly."

"That's life, darling." His voice was a growl. "You either deal with it or you die."

"Dealing with it leaves you with scars and shapes who you are just as much as your choices do. And who is to say that the choices were really yours when life experiences can shut off paths."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You shouldn't make excuses for others that you wouldn't accept as excuses for your own behavior. Would you snap the neck of a child just because you could? No? Not even if your mommy hated you? Then you shouldn't give me a pass because mine did."

"It's not so black and white," she insisted, sitting forward in her chair. "Choices aren't right or wrong."

"Oh, love, they can be. There are some choices that are good and bad. And I made all the bad ones. And now I'm a scary demon who would rip your throat out if you got close enough." His smile was more of a grimace.

"Would you? Because you didn't."

"If it would help me escape, I would." He almost choked on that statement. It was false. As soon as he said it, it fell flat like a bald lie.

She stood up and stepped inside the Devil's Trap. "I think that's a lie," she told him. Of course she'd see him for what he really was: a little boy who had been unloved and stole a kingdom so he could have fear and blind loyalty instead.

Rage swept through his brain. Crowley stood and smacked the metal table out of the way. It clattered against the way and by the time it hit the floor, he had her wrists in his hands. She'd lifted her hands to protect herself from the table so her wrists were already presented to him and so easy to latch onto. There was fear in her eyes-panic and overwhelming fear with just that touch of defiance that she'd shown him a moment ago.

"Are you afraid of me now, darling? Do you think I'm really a poor little soul that had a sad life and now I'm hurting other people because of it? Do you think I don't enjoy being evil?"

She tried to pull away, but he was holding her too tightly. Crowley watched her struggle, noticing the circular bruises on her delicate throat. They were from the demon who had attacked her before the Winchesters found her. He'd left her with the key to the kingdom, alone and unprotected out there. A wave of nausea hit him, almost doubling him over. Guilt. It was guilt, not nausea. She wanted to help him, thought the best of him. And he repaid her by putting her in danger and scaring her. Dammit.

He let up on the pressure and pulled her closer. She gasped as he pressed her captured hands against his chest and pressed her tightly against his body.

"What are you doing?" she asked. There was some fear there, but it was mostly confusion now.

He bent his head and grazed the fingertip bruises on her neck with his lips. "I'm sorry he hurt you and put these bruises on your neck," Crowley murmured against her warm skin.

"Crowley," she said, stiff and unmoving in his arms. "Please don't hurt me."

"I'm obviously incapable," he whispered in her ear. She shivered, soft puffs of warm, moist air escaping from her open mouth. Instead of allowing her to speak, he grazed his lips over the line of her jawbone until he was able to capture her mouth of a kiss. She didn't resist him as he slipped his tongue between her lips and let it battle with her own. Her initial hesitancy faded away and the delicate fingers of her hands curled into the lapels of his suit jacket.

She was so warm and willing and sweet. So innocent that she canceled out every bad thing he'd done in that moment. If she accepted him then he could accept himself. Maybe.

He pulled back to let her take a shuddering breath. "What was that for?" she whispered.

"For me," he answered. He felt both languid and content, but also crazy with passion. Passion. It was a strange emotion. Normally passion was reserved for torturing or making his underlings quake in fear. Sometimes it crept into his bedroom when he had one of his playthings chained to the wall and ready to have when he wanted them. It wasn't for kissing and being kissed by a strong-willed human woman with kind eyes and a desire to understand how he became the twisted soul he currently was.

His ruminations loosened his grip on her. Suddenly, like a frightened rabbit, she bolted. She slipped right out of his arms and out of the Devil's Trap. He left her go, knowing if he reached for her that she'd never touch him again. What he'd just done had caused enough damage.

She was in the doorway now, her arms folded over her chest again like she needed to protect herself.

"I'm sorry, love," he said softly, standing in the middle of the blasted trap with his hands shackled and hanging limply in front of him.

Instead of replying, she closed the door. Crowley fell back into the metal chair and sighed. His lips tingled with the memory of her kiss. The way she'd felt against him... He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his brain. They would get him nowhere. She would get him nowhere. Everything he'd worked for was down the left fork in this path and she was standing in the right fork looking at him with those fucking eyes that cut through him like nothing else.

Why did he ever set foot in that casino?


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 8**

Hazel couldn't get him out of her head, but she couldn't go see him either. Sam and Dean were both hunched over a book from the Men of Letters' library, trying to find a way to remove the key from her. They had been coming up empty. And she was in the proverbial dog house because when they go tback to the bunker they found a broken glass in Crowley's dungeon.

She'd heard Crowley tell them that he'd used telekinesis to fetch the glass of water, but they knew better. He was unable to do anything with the shackles on. The mess of the overturned table and the shattered glass spoke volumes and the two brothers shamed her for falling for Crowley's tricks. They'd told her to never ever go near the storage room again.

And even though she felt they were wrong about Crowley, she couldn't argue with them. They were protecting her after all. She'd tried to explain to them that he hadn't hurt her when he'd had the chance, but they weren't buying it. Their hatred of him was blind. Although, for all she knew it could have been well-deserved. What had he been like before the blood? Like the man who'd walked into her casino. Those encounters had been before Sam had injected him with human blood. Hazel couldn't see much difference between that Crowley and the one sitting down the hall with chains on his wrists.

She spent the last two days reading voraciously, hoping she could find something to remove the key or kill Abbadon or both. It was like searching through a library, unable to locate the specific book you wanted because it was out of order, on a shelf in the wrong section. Dean wasn't much for books and he'd almost given up. There were five empty beer bottles in front of him by noon. Sam was more studious, but still rubbing his eyes in frustration.

"Can I get some fresh air?" she asked.

"No," they both said in unison.

She licked her lips and swallowed. "Maybe I could ask Crowley nicely if he'll remove the key. I really don't think he's as..."

"No," they both said again.

"He didn't..."

"You don't make deals with demons," Dean told her.

"I didn't. I'm just saying that I think he might help."

"He won't." This came from Sam, the more level-headed of the two brothers. "You don't make deals with demons. Trust me. I know from experience."

All three of them jumped when Dean's phone rang. He said a few short words of acknowledgement into the phone and then hung up.

"Who was it?" Sam asked.

"Teddy, an old buddy of Dad's. He's got some trouble in Enid, Oklahoma. Pack of vamps preying on the high school kids."

They both looked at her. Hazel shook her head. "This is actually real life for you guys, isn't it? Like, every day. Demons, vampires, werewolves, ghosts."

"Every damn day," Dean said. "So, we have to go bail a buddy out. And you have to stay away from Crowley. Got it?"

She nodded. "Got it."

"Really, Hazel. You don't know what he is capable of. He's dangerous," Sam said.

"I know," she whispered. "I'll be okay."

She managed to follow them to the door and get a breath of fresh air before they shut it in her face and confined her to her own little prison. It was nearly dinner, so she heated up a can of soup on the stove and ate it quietly at the little table in the kitchen. The sound of the spoon scraping the bowl echoed through the empty bunker.

After dinner she changed into a pair of pajamas-heather gray shorts with a matching T-shirt-and settled into her bed to read a diary written in 1943 by a Catholic priest in Boston who specialized in exorcisms without Church approval. It probably wouldn't help her shed the key, but any knowledge was good knowledge. Except all she could think about was Crowley and how he'd been sitting in that dark room for two days.

The clock ticked and the minute hand moved, then the hour hand moved. It was almost ten o'clock when she sighed and shut the book. Feeling a bit like a criminal, she carefully made her way out to the main room and then down the hallway that led to the dungeon. She flipped on the light in the storage room and then pulled back one of the shelves to slip into the dungeon. She flipped the light switch and illuminated the sparsely furnished room.

He blinked and then smiled at her. The smile was warm and the edges of his eyes crinkled up. "Hello, love."

"Hi," she said softly.

* * *

Crowley felt only relief when he heard the door to the storage room open and the sound of her bare feet cross the floor. No heavy footfalls of the Winchesters and their constantly flapping lips that whined and complained and threatened at every turn. Just his sweet Hazel. When she flipped on the light, he immediately noticed her bare legs. She had on a pair of shorts that covered less than half her thighs and a loose T-shirt that only hinted at the gorgeous curve of her breasts beneath.

"You look fetching today," he said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.

"Stop it," she told him, pulling the chair closer to the Devil's Trap.

"No Moose and Squirrel today?"

"No, Boris," she said with a smile. He returned her grin, recognizing her reference to the children's cartoon he had pulled the Winchester's nicknames from. Being King of Hell didn't mean one couldn't keep up on pop culture. "They had to leave for a job," she told added, sitting down. He looked at her bare feet on the floor. Her toenails were a bright, fiery red.

"Getting ready for bed or just getting up from bed, my little minx?" he asked her.

"Getting ready for bed."

"Mmm, how I wish I could join you."

"I'm sure it isn't so comfortable in here with just the chair and the table. Is there something I could bring you to help? A cushion or blanket or something?"

"Darling, Moose and Squirrel would not approve. They were very upset about the glass of water," he admonished her.

"I think they are cruel to you."

Her gentle green eyes were deceiving. Yes, she seemed to believe that he was being mistreated in some way, but she also wasn't stupid. Her heart didn't bleed for him, but her sense of fairness was ruffled. "Perhaps I deserve it. I am a demon. I have killed people they called friends. I've even tried to kill them. Though, it never seems to stick."

"Don't you think you can change?"

"What makes you think I want to change?"

"I didn't say you wanted to change. I'm just..." She wrinkled her nose and looked up at the ceiling. "In the Urth of the New Sun Gene Wolfe wrote this beautiful line about finding yourself or shedding the expectations of others." He watched her sigh and look up at the ceiling again. She started quoting it, hesitantly at first. "Imagine a man who stands before a mirror; a stone strikes it and it falls to ruin in an instant. And the man learns that he is himself, and not the mirrored man he believed himself to be."

"I'm not man, darling."

She nodded in agreement. "But you were. A long time ago. And maybe you had a raw deal and maybe you made some bad choices. Or maybe they were the only choices you saw so there wasn't even a decision to be made. I think we all see ourselves through the eyes of others. And that can be a heavy burden."

How old was she? She was a child. Where did this wisdom come from? "And what do others see when they look at you?" he asked, truly curious.

She crossed her legs and absently chewed on her lower lip as she honestly gave his question some thought. "I... I think they see a shy bookworm who doesn't know how to make small talk and seems awkward around people. I think they see a girl who probably will never make much of herself beyond being a good employee and living a quiet life. Someone... forgettable."

"Love..." he said softly. She looked up and met his gaze, her eyes clear and truthful. She'd meant every word she'd said. And what was worse was that she had accepted and made peace with it. "I'm afraid you are very wrong."

She laughed softly. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. You gave me the key because I was innocuous. I blend in and you thought it would take someone a very long time to connect the dots and realize you'd left the key with a boring girl in Albuquerque."

He opened his mouth to dispute her, but in a way she was correct. He had counted on her ability to fade into the background as a protection to the key. But she wasn't completely right. "And yet I noticed you," he said.

"Because you were looking for a place to keep this key of yours."

"I didn't have a need for a hiding place until the night I walked you to your car. Those other times I flirted with you? They were because I wanted to."

She shook her head. "Flattery won't get you out of this room. What do you think people see when they see you?"

He felt those emotions stirring, rising, almost choking him. It had been too many years and he was very much out of practice. "A demon."

"That's a cop out answer," she pointed out quickly.

Crowley leaned back and put his hands behind his head. He saw the way her eyes darted up to trace his arms and down his chest. Yes, little girl, he thought, it's all yours if you want it. Instead of baiting her like that, he said, "A ruthless entrepreneur who rewards those of quick wit and business acumen and wipes the floor with anyone who opposes him. A duplicitous demon who always honors his deals, but makes sure he has a way to benefit from a losing situation."

"Fair enough," she told him. "Gene Wolfe also said that an angel is only a demon that stands between us and our enemy."

He laughed loudly, the sound filling the small stone room. It had been ages since he'd had such an enjoyable conversation. Perhaps part of that was due to these pesky human emotions, but he was sure most of his enjoyment was from the lovely woman who sat there in her little gray shorts and her bright red toes. "Darling, that is more accurate than you know. Ask Moose and Squirrel the next time you see them and they will agree."

"So, you don't want to change. But have you changed?" she asked.

Crowley thought about the question and finally decided to answer honestly. "Yes, I have."

"And have you changed because of the blood or because you want to?"

"Because of the blood."

"But you asked me for my blood. Which means you choose the blood. Which means you want to change." Her face looked so serious. Her eyes were clear and wide and watching him intently. And she had him. He had asked for her blood and the blood did change him, made him less removed from his distant humanity.

"It's a drug," he told her. "I'm looking for my next hit."

"Or you're looking for a way out."

"Out of what, love?"

"Your life as a demon. Don't you miss your humanity?"

He snorted. "No. Why would I? It was just weakness and life within the constraints of a society that shit on me."

"You can be better than where you came from," she said quietly.

"Why should I be better when I can be greater? Have more power? Command more attention?"

"Ahh, attention," she said. "Adoration of your followers? Love?"

He felt like she'd punched him in the gut. "Demons don't need love."

"But do they want love?"

"No," he snapped. "Do you?"

"Do I want to be loved?" she asked, raising her brows.

"Is there anyone else here, darling?"

She smiled. "Of course. Who doesn't?"

"Would you settle for lust?" His smile was a grimace. He was treading on thin ice. Just below the surface was that swirling, rough sea of emotions that threatened to consume him. Longing, desire, need, regret. Love, a foreign thing that had always seemed to elude him in both life and death.

"I don't think lust is for me."

"Why?" he asked, leaning forward.

She shrugged. "I'm not much of a one-night kind of girl. I thought I made that clear when you asked me upstairs."

"Don't you wonder, love? Don't you wonder where that kiss a few days ago could have gone? You on this table? My hands, my mouth all over your body. Parting your legs and sipping from that sweet nectar the flows from your body. Sliding myself deep inside..."

"Hush," she said, cutting him off. "I'm not... That's not me." She was aroused. He could smell it all over her, hear her rapid heartbeat. See the way she licked her lips and the way her eyes dilated when she looked at him.

"It is you. You just like to deny it. Don't you want to be bad just for a little while? I can show you."

"It's... That's empty," she replied. "Besides, it's all make believe. Sex isn't like that."

Crowley grinned. Was she so innocent? "Like what, love?"

"Like the movies. Like in the smutty romance novels." She uncrossed her legs, pressing her thighs together tightly. She was very uncomfortable having this conversation with him and the sadist in him loved it. It was such a welcome distraction from his own crisis of guilt and regret.

"You're not a blushing virgin, are you, Hazel?"

She scoffed. "No. Not that it is any of your business. That's why I know that sex isn't like that, though. Been there, done that."

Crowley licked his lips. "Darling, you've been tricked by a very poorly performing man."

"Four," she snapped. Her cheeks were flaming red now.

"Four?" he asked, feigning shock. "You hussy. But still... four and not one of them got it right?" He clucked his tongue. "Such a pity."

Hazel stood and crossed her arms over her chest. It was a defensive gesture, but all it did was present her breasts on a platter for him to behold. "I'm done with this conversation," she told him. She could poke and prod at his weakness, but she couldn't stand when he found a soft spot on her. Well, not so fast.

"Come here and sit on my lap, darling. We'll keep our clothes on, but I'll still make you come harder than you've ever come in your entire life."

"Absolutely not!"

"What?" he asked. "Afraid I can make good on my promise?"

"Not that kind of girl," she said again.

"That's a flimsy excuse and it won't last you much longer," Crowley warned.

"Besides, you'd probably do it by manipulating my mind with your... demonic powers."

He couldn't help but laugh. Once his chuckles died down, he said, "You have my word that I will not use any supernatural powers on you to make you come. Just my hands and maybe my mouth."

"You said I could keep my clothes on."

Got you, he thought. "I did and you can. Don't you want to find out how I can make good on this astounding claim? Aren't you curious?"

She shook her head. "No. I should go to bed. Goodnight." Hazel quickly turned and walked out the door of the dungeon before he could even formulate a reason why she should stay. Such a slippery little thing she was. He'd thought he'd had her on his hook, but she'd escaped at the last minute.

"Sweet dreams, love. Won't you come visit me tomorrow and we can pick up where we left off?"

She didn't respond. Instead she hit the light and shut the door.

* * *

Hazel couldn't fall asleep. Not after speaking with him and listening to him talk about sex and what he'd do to her. He'd been fueling her fantasies for months and now that they were alone and he seemed more than willing to do to her everything she'd imagined, she couldn't hang. She'd practically ran away at the very thought.

Well, he WAS dangerous, after all. He was a demon who could seriously hurt or even kill her if she got too close. Dean and Sam had warned her more than once that he wasn't to be trusted and she should stay far away from him. And she understood why since he was a handful both mentally and physically. The day he had caught her in the trap and pulled her into this body... She'd barely had time to react before she was pinned tight against him.

Hazel flipped over onto her back and sighed. The stupid thing was that she trusted him. She actually believed if she stood there beside him or even sat on his lap that he wouldn't hurt her. He seemed to have this strange affinity for her, even if it was born out of boredom and hope of escape. And he'd been telling her the truth when she asked him questions. Or at least mostly the truth from what she could tell.

As if she wasn't enamored of him enough, getting to know him made it even worse. Sam and Dean would probably tell her that she wasn't getting to know him; that she was getting to know the person he wanted her to see. But, call her stupid, she felt different. She felt like he was being authentic and honest. And that made her find him all the more attractive, even with those flaws.

He was just down the hall. She could walk down there right now. She could leave the lights off and feel her way around the table. She could touch his shoulders and sit down in his lap. And he'd probably guide her, help her find her way to him in the shadows of the room. And she could ask him to make her understand what it was supposed to be like. She'd had sex before and she'd had orgasms before, but it was never anything mind-blowing like he'd offered. Then again, he was probably a typical man who thought he was a gift to womankind when he was really just average. She'd done her share of performance when it came to making a guy feel like he was really satisfying her. Maybe with his position as the King of Hell, all the underlings wanted to make him believe he was the best.

Yeah, that was probably it. He'd been tricked into thinking he was a sex god when really it had just been the fantastic performances of fake orgasms from those who shared his bed. Orgasms were easy to fake. Just a little heavy breathing and a little moaning with your eyes shut. Easy.

There was just something about the way he looked at her, though. All the cockiness and bravado. He looked like he could walk the walk, not just talk the talk. And the way he talked... The way he described what he would do to her body... It sounded like he would relish it...savor her. Damn.

Hazel slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her shorts and panties to brush against the damp hair on her mound. He'd done that to her. She hadn't been thinking of sex at all until she went into his room and he'd talked about sitting her on the table in front of him and licking between her legs or touching her as she sat on his lap with his erection probably pressing up against her ass.

Speaking of which... Three inches. He'd sold his soul for three inches more on his penis. Really? How big was he then? Eight, nine? Ten? She dipped her middle finger between the lips of her sex and dragged the wetness up to where her clit was nestled between the folds. She shouldn't be doing this, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Thinking of him was driving her crazy and she couldn't go down there tomorrow feeling like this or she'd do something she'd regret.


	8. Chapter 8

She delayed all day. She told herself she would face him after breakfast. And then she told her self she would see him that afternoon. And then after she did research on the laptop. And then after dinner. Each time she put it off. Not because she didn't want to see him, but because she was embarrassed over what she'd admitted to him the previous night-that she didn't enjoy sex like he said he did and that she'd slept for four different guys. Not that the number was too big or too little, just that it was private and she really didn't need to be telling some random demon about her sex life.

But he wasn't just some random demon. He was HER demon. She rolled her eyes at herself as she brushed her hair and donned her pajamas-the same grey shorts and T-shirt as the previous night. With her limited wardrobe, it was all she really had.

At eight o'clock, she rustled up a cushion from an extra chair in the kitchen and a glass of water. In her bare feet, she walked down the hallway and into the storage room. She shoved the cushion under her arm and sat the glass of water on a nearby shelf until she could get the doors to the dungeon open. She could see his faint outline in the dark until she flipped on the light and let it cast its yellowish illumination over the room.

He looked up at her with his dark eyes and smiled. "Do you feel like we have a Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf vibe going on with us, love?"

His joke cut the tension and allowed her to laugh as she retrieved the glass of ice water from the shelf. "Yes, that seems about right," she agreed, walking into the room.

"What have we here?"

"Water and a cushion. That chair looks uncomfortable."

"You could always let me go."

"Worth a try," she told him, "but no can do. Do you want the water and the cushion?"

"Who am I to turn down your kindness?" he replied.

Gingerly, she stepped across the trap's barrier and pushed the cushion across the table to him. He slowly lifted his shackled hands and picked it up, giving it a squish while she sat the glass of water down.

Keeping her eyes on him, she backed out of the circle and pulled up her chair. "So, we're not going to discuss my sex life," she told him in what she hoped was a matter of fact voice.

"Or lack thereof," he added.

She nodded her head once to agree. "Or lack thereof."

"And we aren't going to discuss my feelings of regret and guilt," he shot back before shoving the cushion onto the seat of his chair and settling back into it.

"Fine," she agreed. "Comfy?"

"Quite, darling. Quite. But what shall we talk about if your naughty bits and my lack of a heart are off the table?"

"You said you liked Dante. What else do you like?"

He chuckled and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head again. He looked relaxed and comfortable and pleased with her company. It was more than any other man had given in her quite some time. "I was just being a pretentious twat when I said that. I like Stephen King."

She grinned. "Which is your favorite of his?"

"The Stand. You ask that like I have a choice, love. You should know better."

Hazel laughed softly. "I should. The Stand is his best. I read it for the first time when I was twelve. Changed my life. All that death and sex and end-of-the-world stuff. Do you fancy yourself a Randall Flagg kind of demon? King said in an interview that Flagg appealed to him because he was a villain who was always on the outside looking in."

"Hazel, darling," Crowley said. "I said no talking about my mental state."

She pushed her bottom lip out in a pout. He was playful this evening. Conversation with him still felt like a battle, but this battle tonight was just for fun. "Fine. Who else?"

"Authors?" Crowley looked up at the ceiling and then settled his gaze on her again. "Does Frank Herbert get you hot?"

"Hey, no talking about my sex life."

"Yes, yes. Or your naughty bits."

"Frank Herbert is magnificent, though," she said. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration." It was probably the most famous quote from Herbert's most popular novel-Dune.

"Ah, yes. The people who can destroy a thing, they control it," he said, offering another bit of wisdom from Dune.

"It's fitting you like Dune, you know," she told him. "It's a very politically complicated novel that involves machinations and plots within plots to obtain and keep power. Right up your alley, probably."

"Love, you know me too well. Don't go on or you'll make me blush."

"Maybe you've got a bad rap, Crowley," she teased him. "If you like Frank Herbert, you can't be all that horrible."

"I'm a ruthless dictator."

"No, you're not. You're too much of a realist. Isn't there a Herbert quote on that? About giving orders."

Crowley was smiling at her. It looked warm and genuine. "Mmm, let's see... Give as few orders as possible. Once you've given orders on a subject, you must always give orders on that subject."

"Yes, that's the one. I bet that's you. You just let people hang themselves before telling them that they screwed up."

He laughed at that. "Such an observant little thing, you are."

"That's why you like me," she said, smiling at him. He looked like he was having fun and she felt so comfortable with him at that moment.

"One of the many reasons."

"And because I bring you cushions to soften that metal chair. I really don't see how you stand sitting here. I'm sorry I'll have to take the cushion back before Dean and Sam return."

"I'm a demon, love. My physical comfort is not as difficult to obtain as yours."

"Still... Is there anything else I can get you other than the keys to the shackles." She added, "I don't know where they are," when he lifted his brow at her.

"Alas, unless you want to hire a masseuse to work these kinks out of my neck, then only the keys to the shackles and a crack in the trap will do."

Hazel chewed on her lower lip. She wanted to tell him that she'd taken a few classes at the community college back before she took the job as a dealer at the casino. She'd thought maybe doing that part time would help pay the bills. But then the casino had hired her and the money was too good to pass up. She'd dropped the massage therapy classes and focused on dealing.

"Please tell me you have a way to break this Devil's Trap, darling," he said when he saw her indecision.

"I don't," she told him.

"What aren't you telling me? You're terribly transparent."

Hazel sighed and shook her head. "I, uh, took massage therapy classes a couple years ago."

Crowley raised his brows. "Is that so, love? My very own masseuse?"

"I'm not good at it."

"You're all I have, so I'll take it. Why don't you just work this tightness out of my muscle right here?" He pointed at the right side of her neck.

"Crowley," she warned him.

"Come now, Hazel darling. I won't bite."

"Yes, you will."

"I won't bite much. And never to hurt you." He grinned and it weakened her resolve.

"I shouldn't. Dean and Sam said I shouldn't even talk to you."

"We don't have to talk," he replied, the grin getting bigger.

Hazel rolled her eyes. He was incorrigible. "You know what I mean."

"Don't we get to have any fun when Moose and Squirrel are away? They've got us locked up in here."

"I'm not locked up," Hazel told him. But she WAS locked up just as well as he was. The reality of a painful death at the hands of demons was a very real possibility, if not a certainty, if she stepped outside those warded doors. "Well, I mean, I'm here because I want to be-have to be-here right now. Thanks to you and your key."

"Think of it as community service. You're saving my life."

He was almost impossible to hate. The bravado and the jokes and the winks were over the top and such a wonderful distraction from real life. When she was down here with him she forgot that there was a price on her head and her world had been turned upside down. She was just talking to an interesting man who found her almost as interesting. Or did he, really? Beggars couldn't be choosers and he didn't have any choice but her company.

Hazel frowned at the thought.

"Why the long face, love?" He was so very perceptive, never missing a damn thing.

"Nothing," she told him. But she couldn't shake the thought that he put up with her because she was the only person who would talk to him. It made her sad and that made her just a bit reckless. "You have to slide your jacket down if you want me to massage your neck."

Crowley's eyebrows lifted. She could tell that she'd surprised him. She stood up and watched him as he grabbed onto the lapels of his suit jacket and pushed them down to reveal the black shirt covering his shoulders. The shackles prevented him from actually taking the jacket off, but he was able to push it down enough to reveal his neck and shoulders.

Hazel carefully walked the perimeter of the Devil's Trap until she was directly behind him. Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the barrier. He was seated directly in front of her, but he didn't look over his shoulder. He stayed very still, unmoving, probably to avoid scaring her. She was breaking rules-certainly the Winchester's rules but also her own. She'd told herself that physical contact with Crowley was a no-no. The verbal flirtation was fine, but no more touching. No more kissing.

"The anticipation is killing me, darling," he said softly.

She slowly lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders lightly. His muscles were firm and warm. She was expecting a cold body, but she wasn't quite sure why. Gingerly, she pressed her thumbs into the top of his shoulder blades. Crowley grunted and adjusted his position in the chair.

"Is the pressure too much?" she asked as she pressed her thumbs into him again.

He chuckled darkly. "I like it rough."

She took that as permission to press harder before running her hands up to the sides of his neck to work the muscles there. She liked to start at the base of the skull and move her way down the neck to the spot where it met the shoulders. "Let me know if it doesn't feel good."

"Oh, it feels fantastic," he replied, leaning into her touch.

Hazel wished that she could pull his shirt down and touch his skin. She'd been fantasizing about him for so long that her current position seemed so surreal. His muscles were very tight, knotted up and uncomfortable. After about five minutes of working his neck, she pressed her elbow into his shoulder right up next to his neck. Applying a little pressure, she slide it down to the point of his shoulder.

When she pulled back to repeat the movement on his left side, he tilted his head back. His eyes were dark and lazy, content. What he'd look like after sex, she thought. Not that she'd ever find out. He was off limits and she shouldn't even be touching him right now.

"Okay?" she asked, squeezing the muscles on the side of his neck as he looked up at her.

"Better than ever. "

"Stop looking at me. You're making me nervous."

He laughed softly and lifted his head back up to stare through the open door. "What would Moose and Squirrel say if they found you like this?"

"That I'm crazy and you're dangerous."

"Mmm, maybe we are."

She laughed and pressed her elbow into the knot in the curve of his neck and shoulder. "Maybe we are," she agreed. After a moment of silence, she added, "Are you using me to get out of here? You can tell me the truth."

Instead of denying it, he said, "Do you know where the key to the shackles are?"

"No."

"Do you know how to break the Devil's Trap in the floor?"

"No."

"Do you want to let me go?"

She considered that for a moment. "No." Hazel didn't add that mostly the answer was no because she didn't want him to leave her.

"Then no. You aren't capable of helping me in that way."

"So you're just hoping I'll give you a syringe of my blood for your... addiction."

"Perhaps."

Disappointment. It was heavier than she'd expected it to be. "Oh."

"Or perhaps I enjoy your company, love. Didn't I keep coming back to the casino? That was before I wanted the blood or needed to escape."

"You wanted sex." She squeezed his shoulder.

"True," he admitted. "But you didn't agree and I still came back."

"To put the key in me."

"I didn't do that until later."

Hazel sighed. "So what do you want from me?"

He was silent. "What do you think I want from you?" he finally asked.

She ran her fingertips down his neck and then pressed her thumbs deep into his shoulder blades. "A diversion from your situation."

"I flirted with you before I was here."

"Sex," she said, trying again.

"But you told me no."

"Then I don't know."

"Neither do I," he admitted, tilting his head back again. "Come here."

Hazel removed her hands from him. "Why?"

"I'm being a good boy. You have my word. Come here so I can see you."

Hesitantly, she walked around to stand beside him. Crowley pushed the chair back away from the table, the legs scrapping against the stone floor. "What?" she asked, her body tense.

He reached forward and patted the table. "Sit," he commanded.

All those dirty thoughts he'd put in her head of sex on the table flashed through her mind. "Why?"

"Don't you trust me?" he asked with a grin.

Hazel smiled back. "No."

"Darling, you wound me. Sit." He paused and then said, "Please."

She carefully slid between his legs and the table and let her ass rest on the edge of it. Her hands were clamped on the table, her fingers curling into the bottom of it like she was doing the scariest thing she'd ever done. Maybe she was.

"See, I don't bite," he told her.

She looked down at him and watched as he slowly, carefully, reached down and cupped one of his hands around the back of her ankle and pulled her bare foot up to rest on his thigh. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Paying you back." He pressed his thumb into the arch of her foot and swept it up to the ball just before her big toe. The pressure was perfect and was better than anything she'd felt in year.

"Oh, that... That feels good."

"Mmm, I know," he replied before taking her foot in both his hands and applying a gentle, firm pressure. Slowly, carefully, he massaged her foot from her heel all the way to the tips of her toes. Hazel closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

He placed her foot on her thigh while he bent over to pick up the other and give it the same treatment. She wanted to say something, ask him why he was doing this, but she was afraid she'd kill the moment. This quiet time in the dark with his capable hands caressing her feet. He made it seem so sensual.

She gasped and looked down at him when he sat both her feet on his thighs and moved his hands up to her calves. "Stop," she said. The word cut through the stillness of the room.

"I'll behave myself, love," he murmured before kneading her tight calf muscles.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?" he asked, playing coy.

"Everything."

He was silent for a long moment, his fingertips sliding down the backs of her legs. "Because I enjoy your company," he finally said. He didn't look at her when he said it. He was staring at her feet in his lap. He let his hands linger on her ankles.

His answer was shockingly perfect. What other man had ever said that he just wanted to be in a room with her, that being in a room with her was enough to get him to expend some effort. None. Not a single damn one. Except for this demon who claimed to be King of Hell and was locked up in a room in the back of a bunker. How did they get here? Was this fate?

His almost sweet answer softened her even more. She slipped her feet out of his hands and stood up. He looked up at her just as she stepped forward to stand between his knees. "If you're trying to manipulate me, then you get an A plus," she told him.

Crowley smiled. "Likewise."

Hazel gave him a quizzical look at the cryptic response and then leaned down to press a kiss to the center of his forehead. And then a brush of her lips on the tip of his nose. He tilted his head back further, his eyes focused on her lips. She desperately wanted to kiss him, but that was just a bad situation. She was in too deep and there was no way that a demon and a human were going to maintain any sort of relationship, even if they were locked up in a bunker together.

"I like you too much," Hazel whispered to him.

"Good," he whispered back, that playful grin pulling up the corners of his mouth.

"Goodnight, Crowley." She stepped away from him and exited the circle that held him. She wished he could come lay in bed with her so they could talk in comfort, but she didn't know how to deactivate the trap.

"Goodnight, love," he called to her as she shut the door. Her heart felt heavy.


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley sat in the dark with his eyes closed, concentrating on the burning spot in the center of his forehead. The small inch of skin that she'd marked with her warm lips. Hours must have passed and all he could do was think of her and the way she looked at him, the way she smiled, the things she said, the way she teased him, and the way she felt when she touched him.

He felt like he was drowning. He'd fought it at first. He'd spent days trying to talk himself into believing that she was a mark for him to use and that he just needed to figure out what she could be used for. But each time she pulled those doors open and walked into the room, it became clearer that everything he did and said was just to make her come back the next day. He'd been content to sit in silence and wait for his opportunity to escape before she arrived, but now that she was in the same bunker, he needed to have her near him.

Moose's blood had changed him. Irreparably changed him. It had been over two months since he'd had any and the well of emotions those injections had uncovered was still there, waiting to engulf him if he let them. No longer constantly overwhelming, but there waiting if he let himself slip. But she centered everything. She didn't make the roughness of the sea go away, but she gave him a vessel to ride them out in by appearing to actually care about him. No, she didn't appear to care; she DID care. She was transparent when it came to things like that. That smile and the concern in her eyes when she asked him if he wanted to change his ways or if he needed a drink of water weren't deceptions.

So, whether he wanted to change or not, he had to accept that he had. That didn't mean he couldn't have what he wanted. Unless what he wanted was her; and then perhaps he couldn't. His mind went wild when he told himself she was off the table, unavailable. Demons did not buy a house and settle down with a nice girl. And it was startling that there were times in which she looked at him and he found himself able to accept that maybe a simple life with her would be enough.

But there was no simple life for him. He was centuries old and twisted beyond belief from his time in Hell. Did she make him want to be better? Of course. But he could actually be better? Doubtful.

Crowley opened his eyes when he heard rapid footsteps approaching the storage room. The light flickered on and then the doors opened to reveal her. She was still in her little shorts and T-shirt. Her hair was down and somewhat messy. "Good morning, love," he said.

"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said. "So you're technically correct, but it still feels like night to me."

"Why are you here?"

"I couldn't sleep thinking about you down here in that horrible chair."

"Darling, I'm a demon. Comfort is hardly a..."

She was standing on the edge of the circle and looking very nervous when she cut him off and said, "Give me your word that you won't try to escape and you won't try to hurt me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Give me your word. Your word is important to you, so give it to me. Say you won't try to escape."

Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it again. She'd certainly thrown him off. Normally he would try to stall and assess the deal, find a way he could twist it to his advantage, but she was standing there throwing off anticipation, expectantly waiting for his answer. "I won't try to escape and I won't hurt you."

"Good," Hazel said, bending over and lifting a piece of brass out of the Devil's Trap. He felt the trap break like the pop of a bubble. After being around for a few hundred years, he thought he'd never be shocked again. Anything could happen, especially when it came to unpredictable humans. And she was certainly unpredictable. She'd just blown the gate off his prison.

"Hazel," he said, looking up at her with wide eyes.

"You promised," she warned him.

He had promised. And even though he could easily knock her out and escape the bunker, he didn't want to. In that moment he told himself it was because the cuffs were still on him and would make him a sitting duck for Abbadon. And while that was absolutely true, he also didn't want to escape because escaping would be leaving her. And breaking his word to her. And she wouldn't forgive that.

Crowley stood up and looked at her. Her hands were clutched in fists and pressed into her stomach. Her eyes were wide and her breathing fast. She was terrified. It wasn't so long ago that he'd have savored her fear like a fine wine. Now he just felt overwhelming guilt. She'd done nothing but be kind to him and he still made her fearful. He shoved the feeling deep down and instead said, "How did you know that brass lifted up?"

Her upper teeth pressed into her plump lower lip before she said, "I... I was lying in bed and thinking about you and... I don't know. I couldn't sleep so I got up and found the the manual for this place. There's this binder that has information on the bunker. And the trap was under the section for the incarceration and interrogation room."

He moved around the table and watched her take a step back and then another. She'd unlocked his cage, but she looked like she was second guessing herself. He tried to feel pleasure over her fear, but he just felt like a jerk. "Darling, I gave you my word. You were in this trap with me not too long ago and I didn't do anything."

"I know. I just... now I can't get away from you if you want to..."

"Hurt you?" he asked. She nodded. "I don't think you would have let me out if you actually believed I would."

Slowly he walked over to her, his hands hanging in front of him, still shackled. She stood her ground, meeting his gaze. "Don't touch anything or they'll know you were out," she told him.

Crowley smiled and walked past her, intentionally letting his shoulder brush against Hazel's. He felt her fall into step behind him as he walked out of that blasted jail he'd been in for months and into the storage room. He scanned the area as he moved into the hallway and down the corridor, glancing into rooms as he passed them. The place was large with many nooks-bedrooms, libraries, a room filled with bottles and jars of spell ingredients.

"What is this place?" he asked Hazel.

"The Men of Letters built it. They were..."

"A secret society of people who gathered and organized information on paranormal happenings. They used to feed information to Hunters not too long ago," he said, cutting her off. Word was, Abbadon had destroyed them and then disappeared. Apparently, she hadn't found their motherlode. Incompetent, short-sighted bitch.

"Well, not since the fifties," she replied.

"Not long ago if you're a demon who has been around since the sixteen hundreds, love," he said, turning around to look at her. He slowly stepped backward down the hallway away from her. "Do I still make you nervous?"

She pulled in a deep breath and moved to push past him as she said, "Yes."

His instinct was to stop her, to trap her against the wall with his body. Yes, he was cuffed, but he still had the advantage. He stopped himself just before his body twisted into hers. He wanted her good will. He wanted her to like him, to help him. To want him, his mind added. Crowley didn't like that thought as much. He didn't need anyone, not even her.

"Where are we going?" he asked, following behind her instead. It wasn't such a bad place to be since he had a nice view of the way her hips and ass swung when she walked.

"I thought you might want to lie down and rest after sitting in that chair every day. Crowley actually had no desire to rest; he wanted to move and exercise his new physical freedom, limited though it may be. But she was heading down another hallway and entering a bedroom. He was too curious to say no. "This is my room. I'm afraid Dean and Sam would notice if you stayed in another room, so you can stay here. I can't sleep anyway," she told him.

She self-consciously straightened the rumpled sheets on the bed and fluffed the two pillows. It was a double bed with white sheets and a utilitarian gray blanket. He couldn't stop thinking of her in it. Had she been lying there tonight, thinking about him? Crowley walked over to the other side and sat down on the edge before swinging his legs up and sliding down to his back, his hands resting on his stomach. The sheets smelled like her. Delicious.

"Very thoughtful of you, darling," he said, looking up at her as she stood next to the bed. She smiled and then turned to leave. "But," he told her before she could take that first step, "I'm a demon, so I don't sleep."

She turned back and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Finally, she said, "Oh. I guess... I didn't really consider that."

"So, I think you should keep me company. The change of scenery is nice, but I'd like a little conversation if you don't mind."

"Oh. Sure." She walked over to the armchair.

Crowley wanted to laugh. She was so sweet, so naive. "In the bed, love," he said, raising his brows at her.

Hazel looked over her shoulder at him. "I... I shouldn't."

"Afraid you can't trust me? Or afraid you can't trust yourself?"

She turned back around to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. After a long moment, she said, "Both, I guess."

"I promised to be a good boy before you let me out. We can just talk. You and I. Here. In the bed."

"A bed isn't for talking. It's for sleeping," she told him.

"And fucking," Crowley added.

She flinched at the crude word. "I'm not that..."

"Kind of girl," he finished for her with a grin. "I know. So come here and we'll make this a bed for talking. You're the boss, after all." When she hesitated, he played his last card. "Please. I've been lonely for months. I don't want to lie here by myself." He sounded pathetic.

Just as he thought it would, that got her feet moving. She walked over to the other side of the bed and settled down beside him, sliding her feet under the covers that were folded down on the bottom of the bed. "Okay, let's talk," she said, her eyes on the ceiling above them.

Their shoulders and arms were touching. He could have easily taken her hand in his own, but he didn't dare. The blood raging though his body wanted him to touch her, hold her, but he fought it. That touch was intimate and caring. Loving. He didn't touch like that. "Let's talk about you," he said softly.

"What about me?"

"Everything."

"I'm boring. Twenty-nine. Blackjack dealer. Holder of the key to Hell." Her voice was dry.

Crowley chuckled and said, "Where is your family?"

"Dead. My mom died in childbirth having my younger brother. My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was twenty-five."

"And your younger brother?"

She paused before saying, "He jumped off the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge a little less than a year after my dad went. I didn't think he'd have the balls, but... I guess he did."

"Why?"

She turned her head on the pillow and looked over at him. Her eyes had such depth, such emotion, though her voice was unwavering. "Why did he jump? He was sad. Clinically depressed, I suppose. But he wouldn't go to the doctor about it. He smoked pot and snorted coke and shot up meth to escape, but I guess they don't work forever. So, he drove up to Taos. Got a room for the night and wrote me a shitty little note that he was sorry for leaving me alone. And the next morning at five twenty-seven he jumped off the bridge and fell five hundred and sixty five feet before hitting the riverbed. They were in the second year of a draught, so there wasn't much water. Not that the water would have helped." She sighed and turned her head to look back up at the ceiling. "I don't know why I told you all that. I don't tell people about Hank."

"Do you miss him?"

"Hank was a fuck-up, but he was my brother. Of course I miss him. I miss him every day." She swallowed and then looked over at him again. "Did he go to Hell?"

Crowley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was because now his instinct was to sooth her and tell her no. Why was that his instinct? Why was kindness his instinct now? The truth would be better, though. Better for him and for her. "I don't know every single thing that transpires in my kingdom, love. Though, suicide doesn't get you a ticket straight to my fiery gates. Despite what the evangelists may say."

"Oh. Well, good. If you... if you ever see him, then tell him I'm pissed he left me. And that..." She sighed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Wiping away the tears. "And that I'm sorry I couldn't help him. I was just... Well, I was dealing with losing dad, too."

They lied there in silence, both staring up at the white ceiling. Finally, Crowley said, "Family can be a pain the ass. We're better off without."

"You don't believe that." Her voice was flat. She thought he was full of shit. And he was. He'd spent too many years torturing himself over the lack of love from his mother and his failure as a father to really believe the bullshit he'd just fed to her. "And it sounds like you have family issues of your own. The Men of Letters have a biography on you that says..."

"Let's not go into that, shall we, love?" Crowley didn't really want to know what it said. He already knew she'd read about his bitch of a mother and maybe even his reprehensible roll as a failed father. What she must think of him... Why was she even sharing this bed? She was too good to be in the same room with him. His emotions for her were sometimes so thick, so convoluted that he felt he would choke on them. Lust and longing, desire and respect, intrigue and need. A need for her to acknowledge him, want him. If she did then he would be better, more real, happier. And then that wave of disgust rolled over him at the realization that he was a sniveling little boy who desperately wanted the girl to validate him.

"Do you enjoy being a demon?" she asked softly.

"Of course." The words popped out without thought or consideration.

"Sometimes you are so unlike what I think a demon would be that I forget you are one."

"That's a dangerous thing to forget, love," he told her.

Her voice was soft when she replied, "I know. I'm feeling reckless. I let you out of the trap. They told me you would manipulate me into escaping and as soon as I broke the seal, I wondered if that's what you did."

Guilt. Waves of guilt. She was blaming herself and he couldn't let her do that. His mind was frantic. "If I manipulated you it was only so I could get out of that room. I can't leave this bunker or I'll die. And I daresay you shocked me when you pulled that piece of brass out of the Devil's Trap."

"Can you die? Haven't you already?"

"Die for good? Of course I can. If stabbed with the right blade, I can be killed for good. No more essence d'Crowley."

"That's sad," she said like she actually meant it.

"Is it really? I do get weary of this ride sometimes."

"Of course it is. To have your consciousness gone? That's a tragedy."

"I'm an evil demon."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit." She looked over at him and smiled. "Or maybe you're giving yourself too much credit. You're a lot nicer than you think you are. If you weren't then I wouldn't like you so much."

He smiled now. "You like me, do you? For my hot body, I suppose?"

"Of course. And your fascinating mind."

"I'd rather you treat me like a piece of meat, love. Use me for your pleasure."

She gave a delicate snort. "I don't know how."

"Not for lack of my trying," he shot back.

"Hush. My lack of a sex life is off the table."

He turned his head to look at her. She was beautiful, her soft blond hair spread out over the pillow. "I haven't done this in ages," he admitted. His heart feel soft and squishy and sentimental. Disgusting.

"Done what? Talked with someone in bed?"

"Mmm," he agreed, holding her gaze when she turned her head to look at him.

"Me too," she said. "It's nice."

"I could think of other things that would be nicer."

She rolled over on her side to face him and carefully laid her head on his shoulder. "Don't ruin this with innuendo," Hazel told him, letting her hand rest on the middle of his chest.

Crowley's gut reaction was to lift his arm and let her settle into the crook of his shoulder, but the handcuffs prevented him. It was starling when he he realized if he could make the cuffs disappear, he'd not try to leave. He'd stay right where he was. In her bed with her next to him. He wanted to feel disgusted with himself, but he couldn't find that emotion when he reached for it. Instead there was an unfamiliar sense of pleasure.

Pleasure wasn't so unfamiliar when it came from torture and the culmination of a perfectly laid plan. Or even from physical release. Pleasure from intimacy, comfort, closeness to another being-that was bizarre. It was something he'd wanted-begged for from his mother and from the first few women who had twirled into and out of his life as a human-but never something he'd experienced. Until now. Centuries down the line with a beautiful young woman who didn't seem to realize exactly how terrible he was.

It couldn't last. Wouldn't last. This was fleeting, just a tease. The thought made his heart ache at the eventual loss. It made him want to push himself up off the bed and walk away from it all. Better to never have it so he didn't know what he was missing. Except he'd accidentally fallen in it already. The damage was done.

"You look like you're thinking hard," she said softly, looking up at him. Her hair was shockingly bright against his black suit jacket.

"It's unusual to have a new experience after existing for three hundred fifty years," he replied. The urge to kiss her was almost overwhelming, but he tamped it down.

"What's you're new experience?" she ask, pressing herself closer, her body conforming so easily to his.

"Contentment."


	10. Chapter 10

Hazel woke up in stages. The warmth of a body next to her didn't strike her as unusual until she'd opened her eyes. And there he was, lying on his back next to her with his eyes closed. Her leg was thrown over his thighs and her arm over his chest. She'd been using his shoulder as a pillow.

Hazel pulled back and whispered his name. He opened his eyes, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to hint at a smile. "Yes, darling?"

She pulled away completely and sat up. "I thought you didn't sleep."

"I don't."

"Your eyes were closed."

He chuckled. "Just relaxing."

"You shouldn't have let me fall asleep on you. What time is it?" Hazel pushed herself out of the bed and ran her fingers through her hair to untangle the strands.

Crowley's eyes cut over to the clock. "Ten in the morning."

She remembered talking with him until at least three o'clock in the morning. He'd asked more about her brother, Hank. And he'd refused to tell her much about his life as a human. She found it strange that he was more open about his life as a demon. Falling asleep hadn't been planned, but it had been a long day and she felt so comfortable next to him. So safe. Which was another strange thing. Safe with a demon.

"Sorry I... trapped you last night."

"You freed me last night. Staying here was my choice," he said, sitting up and swinging his legs out of the bed to rest the soles of his shoes on the floor. He looked unflappable while she felt completely out of sorts-still hazy from sleep and feeling such fondness for him. It was becoming harder to remind herself that he was a demon. And those days that he walked into the casino and flirted with her seemed so long ago.

"You don't eat, right?"

"I don't need to," he replied, standing up and rolling his neck from side to side.

"Oh. I'm... I'm going to take a shower and change." She needed to get away from him for a minute. She was falling for him and she needed to stop because whatever this was would go absolutely nowhere.

She grabbed her duffle of clothes and practically ran out of the bedroom. The bathroom door locked, but she consciously chose not to turn the latch. If he walked in and joined her then... Then she'd let him. She'd welcome it. She'd be that girl for once in her life. She spent the entire time in the shower holding her breath and listening for the low creak of the door opening. It never happened.

Hazel took her time drying herself and dressing in a pair of black leggings and an oversized white T-shirt. She brushed her wet hair and rubbed lotion onto her face before looking at herself in the mirror, wondering what he saw. Maybe nothing. Maybe just a regular girl that he'd manipulated into letting him out of his cage. Except there was really nothing to keep him from walking out of the door, even with the handcuffs on. And he'd stayed. Not just stayed, but let her sleep on him like he'd enjoyed the physical closeness.

She opened the door and walked back into the bedroom, but he was gone. She felt a heaviness in her heart. What if he'd left? What if he was just waiting for daylight to get the hell out of the bunker and away from her? She blinked away the pathetic tears that had started to form in her eyes. She really needed to get over those abandonment issues that she'd been saddled with. So, he left. So what? It wasn't like she had any claim on him. It wasn't like she had any right to expect more from a demon.

Hazel had convinced herself he was long gone and was coming up with excuses to tell Dean and Sam when she walked into the main room of the bunker and found Crowley sitting at the table, perusing the binder that had instructions for the bunker. "You're here," popped out of her mouth before she had a chance to think.

Crowley looked up and raised his brows. "I am. Is that surprising to you, darling?"

"Yes. I thought you'd leave." She walked over and sat down across from him.

"I gave you my word I would not."

She shrugged. "People break promises all the time."

"I don't."

She smiled at him. "I think it's strange that the only person I know who doesn't break his promises is a demon."

"Reneging on deals is bad for business," he said, looking back down at the binder and flipping to the next page.

"Business," she said, feeling disappointment licking at her heart. "I let you out and you didn't kill me in return."

His gaze lifted up to her. His eyes were dark, but not unkind. "Deals are what I do. What I've done for years. Perhaps you'd like to renegotiate your deal? I admit, you did get the short end of the stick. I wouldn't have killed you anyway."

Hazel watched him for a long moment. Making any deals with him seemed dangerous. He was too clever and too experienced for her to ever win. "I don't want to make any deals with you. If it takes a deal to get you to do or not do something, then it's a lie."

"A lie?"

"Something you never wanted to do in the first place. If you're going to do something for me, then I'd rather you do it because you want to, not because you have to or you get something else out of it. That's... shitty."

"No quid pro quo for you, then?"

"If you're going to give something, then give it without strings."

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't know how. Why would you turn down the ability to get something you want?"

"Anything I want is worthless if it isn't given freely." This was too much. She was saying too much to him. Hazel stood up from the chair and walked toward the kitchen. "I'm making an omelet for myself. I know you don't have to eat, but do you want to eat?"

"Yes, love," he said to her back just as she turned the corner.

* * *

Their plates were still on the table, empty and waiting to be carried back to the kitchen. Crowley had eaten his omelet with what appeared to be pleasure, not leaving a speck on the plate. They had spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon reading and talking. Mostly talking. He was still cagey and wouldn't talk much about himself, though he appeared to be interested in her. Probably to get gather dirt for future use, she thought.

She'd been vacillating back and forth between thinking that he was just using her to believing that he might actually want her. And not just her body. The innuendoes and sexual comments had been thrown into his conversation today, but she never felt pressured or uncomfortable because of them. They were just there, part of him and his personality. Part of his armor, it seemed.

She got up to return the book she'd been looking at instead of reading. He commanded her attention without even trying. And all she could think about was the way he had felt the previous night next to her in bed. After putting way the book, she turned around and walked over to Crowley. The plates were just to his right. Her intention had been to gather them and take them to the kitchen. Instead she found herself looking down into Crowley's face. He'd turn around when she stepped up next to him.

"What?" she asked, self-consciously chewing her lower lip.

He reached a hand up and captured the tips of her fingers. The chain that connected the cuffs rattled. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she stepped between his knees. "You can't read all day," he told her.

"Sure, I can," she replied. "Besides, we were talking more than reading."

"Why don't you talk to me from here?" he asked, lifting his other hand and placing it on her hip. She rested her free hand on his shoulder.

"From where?" she asked.

"From here," he repeated. A firmer grip on her hand and hip allowed him to pull her down to his lap.

Hazel gasped and wiggled to stand up. "Crowley," she warned him.

He immediately let go of her, instead moving his hands to cup the sides of her face. "I just want to touch you, love," he whispered.

She stopped moving, perched sideways on his lap. Her fingers curled over his shoulder as he gently dragged his fingertips down her cheeks and traced her jawline to the point of her chin. "Why?" she asked.

"Because."

Hazel looked into his dark eyes and felt herself falling. "That's not a reason."

"Because I want to," he amended.

She reached up with her other hand and grazed her fingertips over the scruff of his beard. He leaned into her touch before turning his head and letting his lips brush against her fingers. They were soft and she remembered the way it felt when he'd kissed her. Both times. The kiss in the parking lot had been passionate and deliciously lingering. The kiss in the dungeon had been no less passionate, but it had been laced with his frustration. It had been harder and more demanding. She wondered what it would be like it she kissed him now. Would it be softer, yielding, welcoming? His eyes promised all that and more.

Something had changed in him. She wasn't sure if it was his gratefulness for her breaking the Devil's Trap or something else entirely. Maybe a little bit of both. She let her hands caress his ears before sliding her fingers through his short hair. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward.

"Does that feel good?" she whispered.

"It feels wonderful," he replied. His voice was barely audible, but in the silence of the bunker she heard every word.

Hazel gently scratched his scalp with her fingernails, starting at the back of his head and moving up to his forehead. He leaned his head back until he was looking up at her again. He looked like he'd been drugged and she'd barely touched him. She thought back to his history-his abusive mother and his difficult relationships that followed. Then his time in hell and the torture he endured and doled out. This type of contact was probably unfamiliar, though he looked as if he enjoyed it.

The chain on his cuffs clinked as he moved his hands to her shoulders and then running them down her arms. His gaze never left hers while he took her hands from his head and held them in front of his face so he could press a kiss to the palm of each. It was such a reverent, delicate thing to do that it stopped her breath for a moment.

He was looking up at her like she was the beginning and end of his world when he let go of her hands. She placed one flat on his chest and let the other rest on his shoulder. "You're very good at this," she murmured.

"Seducing you?" he asked with that cheeky grin.

"Yes. And touching me. For someone who says he's a big bad demon you sure are..."

"Sexy? Yes, I know," he said when he interrupted her.

Hazel laughed, pressing her face into his shoulder and neck. "Whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the day."

"Oh, the things I'd do to you if these shackles were gone." His voice was gruff and darkly sexy.

"Nice things?" she whispered into the scruffy beard on his neck.

"Well, I wouldn't take you for a stroll in the park, so I suppose it depends on your definition of nice."

He lifted his hands, pulling the chain up between them and then back down behind her. She was trapped between his body and the shackles, but it felt cozy instead of claustrophobic. She pressed her nose into his neck and breathed him in as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"Have you discovered the key yet?" he asked.

"What key?" Her head was fuzzy, slow-moving in this pleasurable state. This intimacy with him felt perfect. "The key you gave me?"

"It's on the back of your neck just below your hairline. I put it there when I kissed you that night in the parking lot."

Hazel pulled back. "What?"

He looked almost nervous as he caressed the spot he'd just spoken of. "Don't be cross with me, darling. Perhaps I shouldn't have used you. But I'm glad I did or you wouldn't be here in my lap. And I'm nothing if not a selfish creature."

She reached back and pushed his hand out of the way. She could only feel her smooth skin there. "I don't feel anything."

"It can't be felt."

"Take it back," she demanded.

"It would be too dangerous for me, love."

"And it's not for me?"

She felt the weight of the chain on her upper back as he took her face in both his hands. "Yes, it is. That's why I'm a bastard. I've been trying to make you understand that you should hate me."

"And yet you do eveything you can to make me want you."

He tilted his head back and brushed his lips over hers. "I can't resist you," Crowley whispered.

She sighed and kissed him, capturing his mouth with hers. He returned the kiss, urging her with tentative presses of his tongue to part her lips and allow him entrance. She obliged and felt herself fall into the heaven that was kissing him, slowly, leisurely, lovingly.

The door above them clicked and opened with the crunch of rusty hinges. She jerked back and turned her wide eyes up to the door, then back to Crowley. He sighed and lifted his arms up to free her from his grasp. Wasting no time, she jumped out of his lap so whoever was entering wouldn't get the wrong-or right-idea about what was happening between her and the demon behind her.

Dean stepped in, plastic grocery bags hanging from his arm. Sam followed closely behind, shutting the door and throwing the latch. When they turned around and looked down to the main floor from the landing above, Hazel held out her arms, trying to block the view of Crowley even though it wasn't possible.

"Don't freak out. I can explain," she told them.

They both dropped what they were holding and rushed down the stairs. "What the hell?" Dean yelled.

Hazel tried to shield Crowley with her body as they came toward her. "I let him out. It was my idea. He hasn't hurt anyone."

"He's a piece of shit and he HAS hurt people," Dean said, pulling up short when he got to Hazel and she didn't move.

"Hazel, move," Sam told her, holding his hands up.

"Guys, he's not hurting anyone right now."

"Only because he's got a leash on," Dean said. "He just tricked you into letting him out."

Sam gingerly placed his hand on her shoulder. "He's dangerous, Hazel. And he's manipulative."

"I let him out because I wanted to. He didn't ask me. Keeping him chain up in there... That makes you just as bad as any of them."

"He's killed innocent people," Sam replied.

Hazel nodded. "I get that. But..."

"No, you don't get that if you're giving us a but," Dean snapped. He took both her shoulders in his and forcibly moved her to the side.

Crowley stood as soon as Dean touched her and for a moment Hazel feared that the two of them would come to blows.

"No trust in me, Squirrel?" Crowley asked, his voice deceptively level and nonchalant.

"Dean, he's safe. He can't hurt anyone with the cuffs on. Why do you have to leave him trapped in the dark in there?" Hazel asked.

Sam wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her away, trying to walk her toward the kitchen. She struggled against him when she heard a scuffle. Dean had grabbed a fist-full of Crowley's suit jacket and pushed him toward the hallway that led to the dungeon.

Crowley looked over his shoulder and locked gazes with her. "Leave it," he told her before turning back to the hallway and letting Dean push him forward.

"Sam, he's different. I don't know what he was before, but I don't think he's that anymore. I think your blood changed him."

Sam let go of her, surprise written on his face. "He told you about that?"

"Yes, he seems so sad. I just... I... we just talked. He never tried to leave."

"He's dangerous."

"I know. You keep telling me this. But you're dangerous, too, right?"


	11. Chapter 11

Hazel had spent the past three hours listening to the Winchester brothers explain how they were a different kind of a dangerous. A GOOD kind of dangerous. But dangerous was still dangerous, and Crowley hadn't done anything to hurt her. Besides the key. She didn't know what to do or think about that. Maybe she was a stupid little girl for believing a demon who had dragged her into a very perilous world actually cared about her.

The Winchesters seemed to think she was stupid. They had repeated themselves until they were blue in the face, and any proof that she could provide to show that Crowley wasn't a danger to her was dismissed by them without a second thought. They didn't care and couldn't see beyond his past.

Maybe if she knew the details of what he'd done, she would be as dismissive and hard-headed. So, they told her from the very beginning. The murders of innocent people who had stepped into his path or gotten in his way during his bid for the leadership of Hell. The attempts on their lives over the years. The threats and the devious things he's done. It was difficult to reconcile that person with the person sitting down the hall. She found it almost impossible. He'd been so careful with her. But there was that edge to him that made her wonder. That edge that attracted her and scared her.

She sat at the table and traced the map on it with her index finger while Dean and Sam sat in silence, watching her like she was suffering from Stockholm syndrome. They both seemed like nice guys who cared about her safety. She believed them that Crowley was dangerous and not to be messed with. But she also believed they hadn't taken time to talk to Crowley, especially lately. Hazel sighed. Maybe she was just being tricked by her body and mind into believing Crowley cared and had changed because she wanted things to be that way.

Just after six o'clock, Dean got restless. She'd noticed that about him-that he couldn't sit still for long. While Sam was deep into books to find a way to remove the key from her so they could get her out of the bunker and away from the great big bad down the hall, Dean paced the room between reading pages. Finally, he announced that he was going to get hot dogs and pie for dinner. Hazel passed on the hot dogs, but admitted to wanting a slice of apple pie. She'd been eating cereal and peanut butter and canned beef stew since she arrived.

"Sam, did he act differently when you gave him your blood that night?"

Sam looked up from the book in front of him. His mouth opened and closed, then opened again. "Uh, yeah. I mean, the spell has been proven to work. And I think it would have had I carried it to the end."

"So, he expressed... regret?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"Like I said, I think he still feels the effects. He told me..."

"Well, he says a lot of things, Hazel. You can't always believe him. He'd say anything to save his ass and that's the ugly truth." Sam shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "Look, I'm sorry if he made you think that he cares. Because he just doesn't. Trust me."

Stupid, stupid girl, she reprimanded herself. That's exactly what she was.

* * *

The only worthwhile emotion he had to cling to was jealousy. Her sitting there with the Winchesters while he was chained to the fucking floor of this stone box was more than he could bear. Unfortunately, the jealousy was dwarfed by his longing and regret and this strange tenderness he felt for her. Those moments in her bed and with her wrapped in his arms while she sat on his lap-those made his heart ache. What heart? He didn't have one, did he? Did he? Was this some terrible side effect of the blood? Is that why he still had these jumbled human emotions?

Things used to be so simple. Torture, kill, plan to rise to the top. If he could climb the heat of hellfire and shit that he'd been trudging through for centuries as a demon, then things would be better. Things had to be better. And they were better when he'd gained control of Hell and made all of those demons bow before him in fear. Except, all that paled in comparison to looking up at her as she ran her nails lightly over his scalp. That was a more defining moment in his life or death than any power grab. And that was a shocking, fucked up thing to realize after all these years.

He recalled those embarrassing words that spewed out of his traitorous lips when Moose had injected him with blood. It must have been the seventh syringe. He'd screamed out that he deserved to be loved, wanted to be loved. There was no love in power, though it was a good replacement. And good enough for him since demons don't love and can't be loved. She made him question that, though.

She made him question so many things he'd considered to be real and true about himself and his motivations. Because there were terrifying moments in which he wanted to give it all up if he could just have her touch him. Everything he'd worked for just gone because he wanted a fucking girl to love him. Pathetic.

He felt nauseous again. Talking to her had abated those feelings, but now that he'd accepted her loss they were back with a vengeance. The Winchesters probably had her miles from here by now, holed up in some seedy motel. If one of them touched her, then Crowley would tear the boy's head off.

He needed to get out of here and find her, but there was no escape route. The Devil's Trap was solid, the shackles were unbreakable, and they'd replaced his collar so he couldn't even stand up straight.

What if Abbadon found her? Crowley growled and shook his head. No. What if Abbadon found the key. What if Abbadon found the key. The key. Not the girl. Fuck the girl. The key was what was important.

* * *

The door to the bunker slammed against the wall when it flew open. Dean rushed in and pushed it shut, putting all his weight into throwing the latch.

"Whoa," Sam said when he and Hazel looked up to see what the commotion was.

"Got a problem," Dean said, running down the stairs and retrieving a gun and a blade from the shelf by the staircase.

Sam was already standing while Hazel was just trying to figure out what was going on. "What problem?" Sam asked.

"Abbadon. She found us. Followed me back here, I think. I tried to shake her, but she's got a Range Rover with two soldiers in camo carrying rifles. They shot baby's tail light out, I think." Dean shoved the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and grabbed a second pistol, checking to make sure it was loaded.

Sam was there beside him, gearing up himself.

"Wait. Abbadon? The one who wants to kill me?" she asked, her voice high and panicked.

"That's the one. You stay here. We're going out to hunt her down."

Hazel felt her anxiety levels shoot through the roof. "But... but what if you... what if you get hurt? How do I protect myself? Can she get in? Should I hide?"

Sam paused and looked at Dean. "We don't know how to kill her, Dean."

"Kill who? Me?"

"No, Abbadon," Sam explained. "Normally these blades will take down any demon," he said, holding up a deadly-looking knife. It looked like a miniature sword. "They don't work so well on her. They just hurt her enough."

"Right," Dean replied. "So we take out the soldiers and get stabby with the bitch until she runs off."

"She knows where I am," Hazel said, standing up backing away from the door.

"Dean, we can't leave her here unprotected."

Dean pulled a bottle of holy water form the shelf and tossed it at her. "Splash them with this and run like hell," he told her.

"Run where?" she asked.

"In the other direction."

"I... But what if they chase me down? I can't run that fast."

"Dean, she's a sitting duck here. If Abbadon finds her then she's dead."

"I don't want to die," Hazel said, walking over to them. "You can't leave me here alone. I suck at fighting."

"We can't just sit here and wait until she finds the entrance to the bunker," Dean replied. I parked out by the road and doubled back on foot. She knows we're staying within walking distance of where I left the car. We can't take you with us out there or she'll definitely get you."

Hazel was trying to think of hiding places in the bunker where they wouldn't think to look for her. As long as the key on her wasn't a beacon, she could hide for a day or more if it meant saving her life. Suddenly, she realized the best place to hide. "The dungeon," she told them. "I'll hide in the dungeon. You shut me inside and they won't be able to find me. The doors, they just look like shelves. Yeah?"

"No," Dean said.

"Why?"

"You're not getting anywhere near Crowley."

"He's chained. I'll stay in the corner. I won't talk to him."

"Dean," Sam said, reasoning with his brother. "It's the safest place for her in here. If we can't find Abbadon before she finds the bunker and if the wards can't keep her out, then the best place for Hazel is that room."

"It's not going to come to that," Dean said.

"It might," Sam replied. He turned his back on Hazel and whispered to his brother, "Look, she let him out and he didn't leave. He didn't hurt her. Maybe he can help protect her."

"He doesn't help people, Sammy," Dean snapped back.

"He helps himself and she's got his key. He'll protect her," Sam said, his voice just loud enough for Hazel to hear.

"So, what? We just-just release him and let him fuck us over?"

"No, we keep the shackles on and have him keep her safe."

Dean ran a hand through his hair and turned his back on Sam and Hazel. He was frustrated and he didn't like the plan, but it seemed like he'd agree to it. "The shackles mean he can't protect her. He's neutered," Dean finally said.

Sam sighed and stepped back so he could pace the floor right in front of the stairs. "Okay, okay. So," he paused and then said, "so we give her the key to the shackles and tell her that she can only use it if Abbadon enters the bunker."

"Enters the dungeon," Dean amended. "Even if she gets in, there's a chance she won't find her."

"Fine, enters the dungeon," Sam replied. He turned to Hazel. "Did you hear that? We'll give you the key, but you can only release him if you can see Abbadon. Last resort. Got it?"

Hazel felt sick to her stomach. Were these going to be the last few moments of her short and uneventful life? "Okay. Yeah," she agreed. "Last resort."

"Don't even let him know you have the key or he'll manipulate you," Dean told her, pulling it out of his back pocket and pressing it into her hand. "Don't let him go."

Sam grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hallway. "Hide the key," he whispered. Hazel tucked it into her bra as she stumbled after Sam. "Don't come out unless you hear us. Got it?"

"Okay," she said. Her eyes were wide and her heart was pounding. "Is this really happening to me?"

"You'll be okay," Sam said. "You got the holy water, right?"

"Yes," she said. The bottle was cradled against her chest by her free arm.

"That will hurt them, slow them down. Throw it and run. If things get bad, Crowley is the last resort. I think he'll protect you since you have the key, but he might kill you once he's free. Don't think he's on your side. He's not."

Hazel could hardly breathe by the time they got to the storage room. Sam pulled open the doors and flipped the light on.

"Moose," Crowley said in greeting before he saw Hazel standing behind Sam with what was probably a terrified look on her face. "What is this?" he asked.

"We have a problem," Sam said, putting the extra chair in the corner to Crowley's right. "She's staying here with you until we get back. Don't kill her."

Crowley's eyes were wide, taking everything in. "I won't kill her." The words seemed so easy for him to say. And he was a man-demon-of his word. Although, Sam seemed to think he'd do only what was in his best interest, even if that meant killing her.

Sam hurried over and unlocked the collar around his neck. Hazel honestly hadn't even noticed the horrible collar until that moment. "Don't go near him," Sam told her before he rushed out of the room and shut the doors. Hazel stood by them and looked at Crowley. Her hands were shaking.

"Come here, love," he said, standing up and holding his arms out to her. The chain hung down between them.

In that moment all those rushed warnings from Dean and Sam disappeared. She was unable to stop shaking and he seemed so calm and collected and capable. Hazel crossed the circle of the Devil's Trap like it wasn't even there and walked over to him. It was so easy for her to step up against his body and let him lift his hands so he could slide the chain behind her back and wrap her in his arms.

"What's happened?" His voice was soft.

"She found me," Hazel whispered.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. Dean said she followed him back to the bunker. Or... well, he lost her. But she's somewhere outside." She lifted her face to look up into his eyes. "Will she really kill me?"

"Yes. That's very likely." His dark eyes looked distant. She wasn't sure if he was worried or completely uncaring about her and the situation.

"Why won't you take this key off me?" she asked.

"Because I'm a selfish bastard who wants to save his own skin," he replied, no compassion in his voice. It was like he was so far away, not even in the room with her.

Hazel ducked out of his arms and stepped out of the Devil's Trap "You mean you're afraid," she clarified, suddenly feeling contempt for him.

"Among other things, love," he agreed, sitting down hard on the metal chair.

She wrapped her arms around herself and walked over to the chair Sam had put in the corner. "You won't protect me if she comes in here." It was a statement, not a question. Hazel felt stupid for ever thinking he would help keep her safe.

When she turned around, she saw him sitting there looking defeated. "I don't protect people," he told her.

"I thought so much better of you," she said, sitting down. Tears were gathering in her eyes. "You did a good job of fooling me into thinking you might actually care a little."

* * *

Crowley felt sick to his stomach. This dream-like little world he'd built with her was crumbling into an ugly reality in which he would be responsible for the death of the only person who had ever freely given him comfort. His attempts at disconnecting his mind from the tumultuous emotions were futile. His instinct was to comfort her, fight for her. His mind told him not to climb out on that limb because it was about to snap and he'd go down with her.

If Abbadon got the key, then he might be able to deal with her. Offer his services, bring those loyal to him to her side. Thinking of a contingency plan came natural to him. If Plan A didn't work, Plan B had to. And then there would always be Plan C if all else failed. So, he'd take a step back, hand over the control to Abbadon. He could work his way back up like he did before and dispose of her. He had forever after all.

Taking the key back would mean certain death. Abbadon would kill him to get it. Kill him for not giving it to her. But if he didn't fight her for Hazel, then... Then Hazel would die. Abbadon would be in charge. And he could negotiate for his life.

Hazel would die. First class ticket to heaven. And he'd never see her again. She looked so scared sitting over there. The guilt he felt was overwhelming, but it was amazing how well those human coping mechanisms were coming back to him. He was learning to tamp it down, cover it up, turn a blind eye.

"I thought so much better of you," she said. "You did a good job of fooling me into thinking you might actually care a little."

Her words made his chest ache. She'd treated him better than anyone in his life or death had. And she'd done it despite the fact that he was the one who had put her in danger and refused to take her out of it. What a fucking bastard he was.

"I'm sorry, love," he told her.


	12. Chapter 12

She was sitting sideways in the chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her legs crossed. Her head rested against the wall as she watched the door just a few feet away. Crowley could see how anxious she was, how frightened. The bunker was silent and still, not even the creaks and groans of an old house. And not a word from Hazel either. He'd apologized to her, though the apology was admittedly hollow if he refused to do anything to save her. She hadn't said a word to him since then. She'd shut down and he felt left out in the cold. It was a familiar place to be for him, but it no longer felt comfortable-not when he knew how good it felt to be let into her world.

"I don't know how to be the hero, darling," he offered, desperate to break the silence and quell these feelings of guilt and grief. And anxiety, too. It came as a shock that he feared for her safety almost as much as he feared for his own.

She didn't even look at him when she replied, "And obviously I'm not important enough to even attempt it."

Crowley didn't know what to say. She was right. That was a decision he had made. His life-existence-was worth more than hers so he wouldn't even try to save her. All his energy was focused on saving himself, making sure he came out of this situation intact if not in a position of power. The chain on his handcuffs rattled across the table as he sat back in the chair.

"I'm so stupid," she whispered. "They told me you just use people and I thought I knew better. I just... just don't understand why you didn't try to escape when I let you out of this room. Was it because I didn't have a key to the cuffs?"

"Yes and no," he answered honestly. If he didn't have the balls to protect her then he might as well be honest with her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, lifting her head up off the wall and turning it to look at him.

"I can't leave here with the cuffs on. They make me powerless; I'd be slaughtered. But I didn't want to leave either."

"Oh, you enjoyed my company so much, did you?" she asked, her tone sharp with bitterness.

"I did," he replied, biting his tongue to keep from saying more, confessing that she WAS important to him.

Hazel snorted. "Fuck you, you... you... you heartbreaker." She looked away and dropped her gaze to the floor.

Crowley's chest ached and his throat felt tight. All those times he spent his miserable human existence reaching out for love and getting smacked back. All those heartbreaking little moments that sent him down the path of being a bitter, unhappy man who sold his soul for something so inconsequential. He'd flirted with her affections in a desperate attempt at controlling his emotions or touching what he'd never had and now he'd done to her what had been done to him. It made him feel sick.

"Darling," he said softly. "I didn't..." Crowley had no idea what to tell her. He didn't mean to? He didn't want it to be this way? He never felt anything? He'd never felt more?

"Yeah," she agreed. "You didn't."

"I don't know how to be this way. I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to put anything before my survival."

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes trained on the floor right in front of the door. Seconds ticked by, maybe a full minute, before she said, "I forget that you're in danger, too. And that's... sad. But you're a... demon." She said the word, but he could tell it had been a struggle for her. "And I'm a human, which is a little more delicate, right? And this is your problem, not mine. So, it's not fair for me to have to carry your burden."

"You're right," he replied.

"Do you really think that?" she asked.

"I do."

"Then why won't you take it back? Let me go back to my life?"

"Because I'm a selfish bastard who doesn't want to put himself in danger. And who doesn't want to let you go." It was one of the most baldly truthful things he'd ever confessed to. Weakness, fear, longing, need. All in that one statement.

"Why?"

He knew she was asking about his second admission. Why indeed? Why wasn't he willing to let her go? Why was he risking her life in hopes that this would end well? And those hopes were mostly futile. Abbadon wouldn't stop until she had control. If it wasn't tonight, then it would be some other day. And Hazel would be caught in the middle and killed when that time came. "I don't know why. I don't know how to do this."

"What? Care about something, someone?" Her voice was harder than he wanted it to be. The damage had been done and she was cutting him off. And women like her didn't vacillate, didn't give a second chance to a fool who had already been give a chance when it wasn't even deserved.

"I've never had the opportunity," Crowley admitted, feeling bitter that she's backed him into a corner.

"That's bullshit," she snapped. Hazel wouldn't even look at him. Her eyes were still on the floor.

"My mother hated me from the moment of my birth. I spent my childhood asking for her love, begging for it or at least some sort of approval from her. I got nothing. When I was older I looked for that acceptance from women-though probably women beyond my social status-and was rebuked. Which led me to whores since I could pay for them to fake interest in my miserable existence. And when I did marry, it was a hateful union of two people who could do no better and could barely tolerate each other." He felt pathetic admitting any of this to her, but he could think of nothing else to say. And he needed to stay something to dissolve that hurt expression on her face. "And when my soul was collected, I spent what felt like centuries in Hell, relieving all those terrible failures and experiencing new ones."

She shifted her body in the chair so she was facing him, her legs still crossed. "Why did you surround yourself with people who didn't want you or appreciate you in life?"

"Because I was a worthless person," he replied without a second thought.

Hazel leaned forward and rested her arms on her knee. "You actually believed your mother that you were worthless?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Of course I did. I still do. I'm only good at surviving."

"But you've risen to the top. You didn't just survive."

"It's empty, love. Empty. The top is lonely and its a constant battle."

Her eyes softened. And while he hadn't said that to get her sympathy, it felt nice to have it. "Why don't you stop, then? Just give it up?"

"I can't do that. I'd be killed. No one would trust that my ambition had just disappeared."

She sighed. "Why are you telling me this? You're the Wizard and you aren't supposed to show me what is behind the curtain."

Crowley felt overwhelming sadness well up within him. "Because in a very short amount of time, one or both of us is going to be dead and it won't matter any longer."

"I'm scared," Hazel admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The sadness was replaced with a sweet tenderness, something he'd only felt briefly when she'd been in his lap, her gentle fingers in his hair. "I know it isn't any consolation, but this is the last thing I wanted to happen," he said. "If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn't have touched you. I wouldn't have even walked into the casino and spoken to you."

"Oh," she said. Her eyes looked so sad and so fearful. He wished he could take all that away from her. Instead, he was the one responsible for it all.

"You deserve better than this, darling. Better than me."

"Don't let your mother convince you of something that isn't true. You could be a better person, a worthwhile person, if you make those choices."

"Doubtful, darling. Very doubtful."

She opened her mouth to argue with him, but nothing came out when they both heard a loud crash. It sounded like the door to the bunker had been blown off its hinges.

Hazel's eyes widened and she jumped up from the chair. She blinked and Crowley could see tears running down her cheeks.

"Be quiet, love," he whispered, standing up himself.

They both stood, frozen, in the small stone dungeon, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hallway, but hearing nothing.

"I don't want either of us to die," Hazel whispered, retreating to the back of the room, farther from the door. Her preoccupation with whatever was going out outside the dungeon's doors made her careless and she walked right through the Devil's Trap. Crowley couldn't suppress his instinct to reach out and grab her hand. She gave no resistance to being pulled closer until her body was pressed against his.

"I also don't want either of us to die, love." He pressed one hand into her back and covered her lips with the fingertips of his other hand. The chain on the cuffs was pulled taunt against her bare arm. The floor underneath them rumbled and the sound of wood splintering could be heard. Not yet in the storage room, but certainly within the bunker.

"Please don't let me die," she said softly, her lips moving against the pads of his fingers. "Please." And then she shifted against him and pulled a tiny key from inside her shirt. It has probably been tucked away in her bra.

"What is that?" Crowley asked. His voiced sounded so far away, like he was a down a tunnel and watching himself from a distance.

"The key to the cuffs. Please don't let her kill me," Hazel said, her trembling hand lifting to the keyhole.

"Darling, don't," he whispered. If she released him then it would be a choice he'd have to make. Leave her or save her. And he would leave her. And she would die hating him. He'd rather be chained.

"She can't kill us both, right? I'd rather one of us live than neither."

Crowley felt tremendous guilt, so much so that he felt he might be sick. He might just bend over and empty the contents of his guts on the floor at her feet. The fact that she even considered his existence worth saving broke his blackened, damaged heart.

She twisted the key and the cuff opened. He dropped his hand and watched numbly as she unlocked the other cuff. It clattered to the floor a moment before the key. He watched as she walked over and lifted the removable piece out of the Devil's Trap. Free. He was free. And he couldn't remember a time when he detested the idea of it like he did now. Because now she would know his true nature. That he was a cut-throat realist who would do anything to get what he wanted or save his own skin.

"Please," she said, turning around to face him.

Crowley moved forward and snatched her hand. "Hurry," he whispered. Maybe if he could get out of the wards in this bunker then they might stand a chance at escape. The wards prevented him from poofing himself and her out, but if he could get outside then maybe. And if he could take her with him, then he would. Because she is the key. Because he was responsible for her, because she had shown him the only pure kindness he'd known. And because you care for her, he reminded himself.

* * *

Hazel was terrified. She imagined the demon who had been hunting her was some gigantic, horned beast. She thought it even though she knew by now that demons didn't really look that way in her world. Maybe in Hell, but not here. They were smoke or they looked like normal people. Which was somehow scarier. All that evil, all that danger hiding in an innocuous wrapper.

Crowley's hand was gripping hers tightly as he lead her out into the storage room. Part of her wanted to stay where they had been, but if this demon was as determined as the Winchester brothers made her seem, then hiding in a room with no second exit was just asking for death. He cautiously edged them forward and then pulled her down the hall quickly.

When they entered the main room, Hazel gasped and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. The table was split down the middle and the books and papers that had been on it minutes before were strewn across the room like confetti.

"Get that knife and go," Crowley whispered, pushing her ahead of him. There was a knife that had tumbled from the shelf where the Winchesters kept their weapons by the stairs. It was long and dagger-like. And it felt heavy in her hand as she picked it up and hurried up the stairs. There was a crash from further in the bunker, much too close to where they currently were.

"Go," he told hissed, pushing her up the stairs.

Hazel's heart was pounding out of her chest, fear of what she'd find just outside the door almost paralyzing her. But it couldn't be worse than the thing tearing apart the bunker. She saw that the door had been blown off its hinges before she even got to the landing.

Crowley's hand was on her back, pushing her toward the opening. She stepped outside into a dreary Kansas afternoon. The sky was drizzling rain and the thick, dark clouds threatened more. Despite it all, the smell was amazing. Fresh air, foliage, water. Her fear receded for just a moment while she took in the sprinkle of water across her bare arms.

The relief was short-lived when she felt an arm lock around her neck and turn her around. She grabbed it with her hands, but it was like steel. Crowley stood in front of her, his face devoid of expression.

"We've been looking for you and this bitch," a male voice behind her said.

Crowley folded his hands in front of himself and tilted his head to the side. His demeanor was so calm while Hazel's heart felt like a trapped bird about to die. "Don't tell me you've bought into Abbadon's idea of a chaotic hell? Do you think you'll actually find the rewards I can give you? It will be every demon for himself."

"Better than a bureaucracy," the demon behind her snarled. "Better than bowing to a Winchester-loving turncoat like you."

Crowley scoffed. "They had her and I retrieved her. Now let her go or there will be no end to the torture I put you through."

Hazel almost couldn't breathe with the demon's arm so tight against her throat and her tip-toes barely on the ground. She looked at Crowley with wide eyes, begging him to help her. He locked gazes with her and purposefully moved his eyes down her arm to her hand and then back up again. It took him repeating the glance once more for her to realize that he was looking at the knife.

"You're soft. We need a warrior to lead us. We'll take over and enslave all these pathetic humans."

Crowley's dark eyes caught hers again and he nodded. Did he want her to stab the demon behind her? She could barely breathe and she'd never fought anyone in her entire life. How was she supposed to stab someone?

Before she could argue with herself any longer, she saw a woman step out of the bunker. She had on a leather jacket and a T-shirt. Her makeup was flawless and her hair was almost as red as her lips. Crowley must have seen Hazel's eyes widen in fright because he turned around. Without a second thought, Hazel used every bit of strength in her body to lift her arm up and bury the knife into the demon's side. For a moment his grip on her tightened and then it went slack as he screamed a terrifying wail.

Just as he fell to the ground, a second man stepped out of the bunker, flanking Crowley from behind while the woman, who Hazel could only guess was Abbadon, approached him directly. "You're a slippery little weasel, Crowley," she told him. Her voice would have been melodic and pleasant if she didn't sound so vicious.

"I have my talents."

"Like getting captured by the Winchesters and locked up with your little toy here?"

Abbadon's back was to her now, but Hazel no longer had the knife. It was sticking out of the side of the man-demon-she'd just killed. Hazel felt stupid and useless. She could have helped him and herself if she'd had the presence of mind to hold onto the knife or grab it before these two had exited the bunker.

"Do you actually think you can control them all?" Crowley asked. "Demons aren't loyal. They need to be managed like children. And you can'd do it; you're a tantrum-pulling child yourself, darling."

The other demon was circling around behind her. Hazel could feel his presence. She glanced back to see him pulling the knife out of his fallen comrade. When she turned around, Crowley was gone and Abbadon was spinning around, trying to find her.

Hazel's stomach dropped. He had left. He'd left her there to be slaughtered by this evil woman-demon, she corrected herself again. Panic was welling up in her as she glanced around and saw nothing but a rainy Kansas day and two demons intent on tearing her apart. And just as strong as the fear was the betrayal. She'd actually believed he would help keep her safe, but when the going got tough, he'd skipped out to save himself. And left her alone.

"What do you say we dissect this little toy and find where the key is?" Abbadon asked her soldier. He was obviously a military demon in a military human body, camo and all.

"I don't have it," Hazel offered up the lame excuse, but it fell flat.

"I can smell it on you," Abbadon replied.

"You... you can have it. Just don't kill me."

She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, we're going to have a little torture before the killing. Anything to stick it to that little weasel Crowley. He and his pack of rats have been causing me too much trouble." She walked toward Hazel. "He doesn't deserve to rule as Lucifer did."

Hazel took a step back and then a step to the side, putting them both in front of her. There was no escape. If she ran, they would catch her. If she stayed, they would kill her. The bunker offered no safety because it no longer had a door. There was no car she could use to get away from them, and even if there was, she didn't have any keys.

"Please. Just take the key. Just take it. I don't want it." She took another step back and almost tripped on a rock.

"Let's start by cutting her fingers and toes off so I can hear her scream," Abbadon told her lackey.

Hazel took another step back and felt her back hit something. She cringed, realizing it was another of Abbadon's demons. And then she heard his voice said, "Hello, love." And then she heard him curse.

Abbadon laughed manically. "You think I'd let you pull that little disappearing act with this little prize here?" she told Crowley. "I've anchored her to this place. You can't run off with her unless you actually want to do some running."

Hazel swallowed the lump in her throat. She was still terrified, but with him standing behind her she felt less frantic, less hopeless. Even if he couldn't evaporate her out of this place.

"I'll make you watch as we filet her and dig out that key," Abbadon told Crowley.

"I'm afraid not, darling," he said, turning Hazel around and grabbing the back of her neck. She didn't have a chance to prepare herself for a hard, forceful kiss. His tongue swept through her mouth and his lips pressed tightly against hers. She felt that tingle and warmth at the base of her skull, just like the night he'd walked to her to car.

When he pulled back, he pushed Hazel hard toward the bunker. "Go!" he yelled at her.

"But..." she protested, watching him turn back to Abbadon and display a jagged black mark on the palm of his hand.

"Go!" he screamed again. "Run."

Hazel stumbled back a step, but couldn't make herself leave him.

"I left you, you stupid girl! Leave me. Go!"

"Kill him and give me the key," Abbadon said.

Hazel looked behind her at the mound of earth that covered the top of the bunker and then back to Crowley. She was useless to him, a liability. She glanced behind her again, but her heart couldn't leave him alone with this evil woman. When she glanced back to him, the demon in the camo had shoved the knife deep into Crowley's gut. She could hear his scream, just like the scream of the demon she had killed herself with that same knife.

Hazel let out an anguished cry, a pathetic, helpless sob before turning away and scrambling up the hill on her feet, knees, hands, however she could get away. She was half expecting one or both of the demons to catch up with her. Every step she took she was expecting to feel the steely grip of hands around her neck, pulling her back.

She felt like she'd been running for hours and miles when she reached a one-lane road. Just on the horizon she saw two figures. No doubt Abbadon and her lackey, coming after her now that Crowley was dead. Hazel felt a sob well up from her throat as she turned and started running in the opposite direction. She wasn't sure how far she would make it with torn-up bare feet.

"Hazel!" a voice yelled from behind her. "Hazel, stop!"

She turned around to see the figures had gained on her. "It's Dean and Sam!" the other person yelled.

She felt relief wash over her as she collapsed on the pavement and started crying.


	13. Chapter 13

Hazel toed off her black shoes by the door and left them on the welcome mat. Then she walked through the small house, shedding her clothes as she went. Bowtie undone, shirt unbuttoned, skirt unzipped. She carefully hung the clothes on the back of the chair in the bedroom and walked into the bathroom, taking off her bra and underwear while she waited for the water in the shower to warm up.

It had been a long day and she was feeling sad. Part of her was glad she had gotten her old job back and returned to her safe little world devoid of demons and monsters. And part of her felt stifled and trapped, knowing there was a great big world out there where things actually happened. Dean and Sam were out there fighting monsters and protecting people like her who didn't know any better. And Hazel was dealing cards at a second-rate casino in the middle of the desert. It felt pathetic.

I'm not a fighter like they are, she thought as she stepped into the spray of hot water and quickly washed the grim of the day out of her hair. She thought about her time in the bunker and her conversations with Crowley. She thought about Crowley every day, actually. She felt grief over his death and incredulity that after everything he'd said about how he didn't know how to be the hero that in the end a hero was exactly what he was. Well, the Winchesters didn't feel that way, but she did. She wouldn't be wrapping herself in a fluffy towel and preparing to sit down to a microwaved dinner if he hadn't sacrificed himself.

After Dean and Sam found her on the road, they had put her in their car and drove back to the bunker. No one was there when they pulled up. The bunker was wide open and they easily searched and cleared the inside. There had been damage from Abbadon, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. While Dean hung the door, Hazel told them everything that had happened from the moment she heard the noises in the bunker to running away after the demon had stabbed Crowley. They both seemed as confused as her on Crowley's motivations, but they seemed to take it in stride.

The next two days were spent gathering intel to sort out exactly what happened. No one really knew, but Abbadon seemed to be busy fighting a war within Hell. Without the key, it was decided that Hazel was safe from attack. She was promptly driven to Albuquerque and dropped off at her house. Before they left, though, Dean and Sam scoured her place and drew Devil's Traps on the floor beneath her area rug in the bedroom and on the ceiling above the door. Hazel had no idea how she'd explain it to the landlord, but she'd rather be safe than sorry.

They left her with a duffle bag of hunter tools, a jug of holy water, instructions for protecting herself from demons, and their cell phone numbers. The first few weeks she spent walking on egg shells, always worried that she'd turn around and found a black-eyed person standing there waiting to shove a knife into her chest. But it had been almost six months and she was getting used to her boring life again. No scary monsters in the dark and no one trying to kill her. No one cared enough about her.

Hazel put on a old pair of pajamas and ate dinner. Instead of writing like she tried to do after work, she curled up on the couch with a book. She stared at the cover. It was the new Stephen King novel. She'd checked it out from the library last weekend and needed to return it soon. It made her think of HIM. Crowley. Always Crowley.

A month ago the barista at a coffee shop she liked to stop at on her way to work had asked her out. He seemed shy and sweet. They had a few things in common. But after two dates, she had stopped returning his calls. He didn't compare. And her life was in a sad state if she was comparing possible boyfriends to a demon who had died six months ago. Died saving her, but died nonetheless.

She looked down at the cover of the book and watched a drop of water fall onto it. It took Hazel a moment to realize the water was a tear that had fallen from her eye. She blinked and a second fell. Work was unrewarding. Life was lonely. She felt like she should be doing something more with herself, but didn't know what. And she was sure she'd be alone for the rest of her days since there was no way that any man could be as dynamic and alluring as the demon who had stolen in heart in such a bizarre way.

Hazel sniffed and leaned over to pick up a small shoe box on the end table. Feeling so lonely made her think of her brother and the box contained his suicide note and a couple of his belongings. Hank hadn't been a religious person, but he'd always worn a gold cross that had belonged to their mother. Hazel remembered her dad giving it to Hank on his fifteenth birthday. He hadn't taken it off since then, not even when he'd jumped. The simple gold cross and Hank's wallet had been the only possessions she'd picked up from the coroner's office in Taos after she'd identified the body.

She draped the necklace over her hand and let the low light from the lamp beside her glint off the gold. Life was lonely without Hank. Without her dad. Without someone to share it with. She'd never been very good at keeping friends, but after Hank's death she'd shut down on everyone, effectively cutting herself off from everyone. Better that than to loose someone again. The only person she'd opened up to at all was Crowley, but he was gone too. Lesson learned; they always leave.

Hazel sighed and closed her hand around the cross, squeezing it tight. And she squeezed her eyes shut just as tight, letting the unshed tears in them roll down her cheeks.

"Hazy?"

The voice made her heart jump up into her throat. She snapped her eyes open and saw him. His color was muted-grey-tinged skin and clothing like there was a pallor over him. She recognized the dark green T-shirt with the rip up the side and the worn jeans with a hole in the left knee and a rip up to right leg. They were the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd jumped.

"Hazy, is that you? I've been looking everywhere for you."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stood up. He and dad had always called her Hazy. She'd hated it, but now that they hadn't been around to tease her, Hazel found that she missed hearing it. "Hank, what are you... How?"

"Pretty sure I'm ghosting around, Hazy. I... I don't know what the hell is going on." He smiled and looked down at the floor.

She moved around the coffee table and walked up to throw her arms around him. Her body slipped right through the air where he was standing, finding no purchase anywhere. When she turned around he was standing there with his arms out like he'd meant to embrace her too.

"Apparently, ghosts can't touch shit. I keep forgetting."

"How are you here? Have you been here all along?"

Hank shook his head. "No. Time is weird, so I don't know how long I've been here, but I think I'm breaking the rules. This guy told me that I had a first class ticket to heaven, but I kinda diverted myself here. I was looking for you."

"Wait, what?"

"I'm sorry, Hazy. I shouldn't have left you. Are you doing okay?"

She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks again. "Yeah, Hank. I'm doing okay. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. I don't think I have much time." He shifted and it looked like he was a hologram that flickered.

"Have you been roaming around looking for me since... since you jumped?"

"Nah, I was a shitty person. Selfish and crap. I got sent to Hell."

Hazel's heart felt so heavy, so sad. "Hank, you don't deserve that."

"Yeah, well, some dude showed up while I'm getting the full treatment-torture and all that shit. And he says there was a mistake and I have to go to Heaven."

"What dude?"

"Some dude in a black suit. English accent. Weird guy. Kinda scary." Hank shrugged. "And then next thing I know I'm back underneath the bridge, standing on a rock in the middle of the water and there's this light that is drawing me up. Except I don't let it. I ran."

"Hank, you should have gone."

"I wanted to see you, Hazy. I miss you so much. I fucked up so bad. Are you really okay?"

She reached out a hand and it went right through his chest. Hazel smothered a sob. "Yeah, Hank, I'm really okay. I wish you wouldn't have left, but I don't blame you. It's okay. You can go."

He flickered again as he looked up at the ceiling. "I think my time is up. I... I love you, Hazy."

A sob escaped her mouth when she opened it and said, "I love you, too, Hank. Be good."

He smiled. "I'll try, big sis."

And then he was gone. She was just staring at the bookshelf that he'd been in front of. Hazel collapsed onto the floor and covered her face, crying into her hands. She remained like that for what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes. All the old grief of losing Hank seemed fresh again. But this time she at least got to say a proper goodbye and tell him she loved him.

It was three-fifty-seven when she picked up her cell and dialed Sam's number. When he didn't answer, she dialed Dean. After three long rings, he picked up, his voice sleepy. "Hazel, you okay?"

"Is Crowley alive?" she asked. Hank had told him a man with an accent in a black suit sent him out of Hell. There was only one demon she knew who had that power and knew who Hank was.

"What?" Dean asked. "Is he threatening you?"

"No. Is he alive?" she asked.

She heard the bed squeak as he sat up. "Why?"

"Because I think he just did a me solid. And because I thought he was dead. I saw him get stabbed, Dean."

"What did he do?" Dean asked.

"He pulled my brother out of Hell and sent him to Heaven. I just got a ghostly visitation. So, he's really alive?"

Dean sighed. "Well, uh, Sammy and I picked up a demon a few months back when we were looking for a buddy of ours. According to him, Crowley survived and has been battling Abbadon for power in Hell. Not that I like either of them, but it's kinda nice having them keeping each other busy."

Hazel felt like she'd gotten the wind knocked out of her. She opened her mouth, but found it difficult to breathe. She hadn't really expected Dean to admit to Crowley being alive. She thought there was some other explanation for her brother's visit. "He's..."

"Hey, if we thought you were in any trouble, we would have said something. He hasn't been stalking you, right?"

"No." She felt numb, confused. "No, I haven't seen him."

"Well, don't go looking for him. He's..."

"Bad. I know. You keep telling me this."

"Look, I know he saved your ass a few months back, but you have to understand that Crowley never does anything unless he can benefit from it. He escaped and according to the douche we talked to, he's winning the war with Abbadon."

"Yeah," Hazel said, sitting down on the couch. She felt drained, zapped of all energy. Her world had been turned upside down one too many times in the past year.

"You call if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

"Hazel, promise me you won't go looking for him."

"I promise. I won't go looking for him." And it was the honest truth. Because just as she said goodbye and hung with Dean with, she realized that Crowley had never come looking for her either. She was just where he'd found her-dealing blackjack and assuaging her loneliness with her writing late at night.

He'd gone out of his way to pull her brother out of hell. She knew he was the only one who could have done it. Although, him not trying to seek her out when he survived made her wonder why he bothered to do her the favor since he obviously didn't care that much. Maybe it was just his way to balancing the scales. She'd helped him escape in that series of events that had almost gotten her killed. Perhaps he just wanted to give her a proverbial nod of thanks.

She shuffled into the kitchen and found a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in the cabinet behind a box of pasta and a few cans of peaches. She poured a shot of it in a squat glass from the shelf over the sink and knocked it back. It burned going down, settling like fire in her stomach. Before she could rethink her actions, she poured another shot and downed it quickly. Maybe it would help her sleep through the night after the trauma of seeing Hank and the heartache of knowing Crowley didn't give a shit about her.

* * *

Crowley felt smug, knowing that he was winning. Abbadon liked to call it a war, but it was more like a campaign. Brute force and chaos really only gets you so far. Even demons like to have some sort of security, knowing where they stand and what they can expect if they behave themselves. She was on the run and had few supporters left. And he was back in his position of power, minions surrounding him to do his bidding.

It was what he'd wanted and what he'd been working toward for months. It was just a matter of time before he could imprison Abbadon and have her killed. He just needed to find a way to kill her. The First Blade would be needed, but getting it was trickier than devising a way to imprison Abbadon. Prison was doable; the First Blade was simply out of his reach since it would require the Mark of Cain.

He walked into his study and found a woman kneeling in the floor in front of his desk, her hands behind her back and her chest pushed out for his perusal. She wore not a stitch of clothing. And while the old Crowley would have dominated her, chained her to the wall and whipped her until she cried out and begged to be fucked, he just felt his stomach turn.

"Get out," he told her.

"But, master," she said, opening her eyes.

"Out!" he screamed, pointing at the door. She made him sick. All of them made him sick. She stood and hurried out of the room, not looking back at him. If she had, he likely would have decapitated her. Useless demon bitch trying to persuade some favor from him.

Crowley collapsed into his black leather desk chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hazel. He couldn't get her out of his head. He'd done everything he could to return his world to normal. He'd tortured a few demons and killed a few more in the push against Abbadon and her pathetic followers. He'd made a few deals and collected a few more souls just like old times, back when things were easy. Back when everything was black and white and he always chose black. Now it was all a swirling fucking canvas of grey.

The look on her face when he'd been stabbed... It haunted him. She'd actually cared enough to be upset-even hurt-at his loss. At the time he hadn't thought much of it since he was too worried about his own skin. When that lowly minion of Abbadon had shoved the blade into his belly, he'd thought he was done for. The pain had been excruciating and overwhelming. It wasn't until after Hazel had scrambled up the side of the hill over the bunker and the knife came out of his gut that he realized something was wrong. Or right, as luck would have it. He should have been on the ground, dead and gone, but he was still upright, clutching his stomach. The wound glowed hot red as he stepped back.

He'd faintly heard Abbadon curse out some frustration, but his hearing was impaired; he could only hear a roaring sound like the most vast ocean crashing over his head. He blinked and he was back home, collapsing on the floor of his study, confused over what had happened and why he was still alive. Was it the blood?

As it turned out, it wasn't. It was the key. He'd never carried the thing around because it was too dangerous; it put a target on his back. If he'd known it would protect him, then he would have considered toting it around all the time. Sure, he could be killed, even with the key, but it was much harder. He'd learned as much while researching as he put things in Hell in order.

Crowley closed his eyes and let the heartache wash over him. Somewhere out there Hazel was sleeping or eating or dealing cards. He'd sent a minion to check on her once he'd regained his strength. The Winchesters had returned her to Albuquerque and left her there, right where they had found her. Crowley killed the minion once he returned from the mission. He didn't want anyone knowing Hazel was anything to him. If someone knew, then she could be a bargaining chip. Abbadon knew, but she had bigger problems right now. Namely, him.

So, Hazel was safe for the moment. It should have felt good, but it didn't. He wanted to see her, touch her. It was a selfish desire because entering her life again would only put her in danger. But he was nothing if not selfish, right?


	14. Chapter 14

Hazel was exhausted. The cold weather and snow meant everyone was spending more time inside. And that meant the casino's business had picked up over the past few weeks with winter in full swing. Not only had she worked an extra two hours this evening, but she'd driven home in a state of tension over the condition of the roads. Just a couple weeks ago, she'd spent Christmas and New Years alone. Feeling sorry for herself was still fresh. Tonight, she'd taken an extra hot shower and fallen into her bed with a book and a cup of camomile tea to help her sleep.

Within an hour she'd given up on the book and instead spent her time staring at the ceiling and thinking of HIM. He'd done so much to help and to hurt her. She wondered why she was being such a stupid girl by obsessing over him. He was bad news and she should be grateful he was out of her life. Except she wasn't grateful at all.

Maybe Dean was right. Maybe after you've seen what is really going on in the world, it IS difficult to go back to ordinary life. Maybe her problem wasn't missing Crowley; maybe her problem was that she needed to do something else with her life. Dealing cards at a casino seemed like such a pathetic thing to do when she knew that there were people dying every day because of things she'd spent all of her life denying the existence of. She couldn't fight, but maybe she could help with research. She was a voracious reader and might be able to help the Winchesters if she had access to the library in the bunker.

Hazel sighed. Or maybe not. The bunker would just remind her of Crowley. He hadn't even let her know he was alive after all those conversations in which she felt they'd connected. Obviously they hadn't if it was so easy for him to cut off contact with her. Stupid, stupid girl. She shouldn't let some dumb guy who didn't give a shit about her dictate what she did with her life.

Hazel closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. She needed to fall asleep. One, two, three, four, five, she thought, counting her breaths. Six, seven, eight...

"Hello, love."

Her heart jumped into her throat as she sat up in bed, sure that she'd imagined his voice. She hadn't. He was standing at the foot of her bed, looking like his usual self-black suit, gray tie, scruffy facial hair that had felt so nice against her fingertips when she'd kissed him.

"Crowley," she whispered, surprise evident in her tone.

"It's been so long; I'm glad you remembered my name."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, pulling the sheets up around her body. She was wearing a tank top and a pair of panties. Sleeping in pajamas had never been very comfortable for her and it wasn't like she had visitors dropping by every night.

"I've missed you, darling," he replied

She should have been terrified, but she wasn't. She was just nervous and oddly happy to see him, to hear the special way he said, "Hello, love," like she actually meant something to him.

"You sent Hank," she told him.

Crowley's brows furrowed. "Found you, did he? I thought I sent him off with a one-way ticket to the pearly gates."

"He got there, but he made a pit stop here a few weeks ago. Before Christmas." She paused and then said, "Thank you."

"My pleasure, darling." He shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly looking just as nervous as she was.

"I thought you died," she told him.

"I thought I did, too."

"You saved me."

He smiled. "Guess I figured that hero thing out in the end."

Hazel smiled back. "You did," she said. He was watching her with those dark eyes, but she still didn't feel any fear of him. She just wanted to touch him, to find that intimacy they'd had when she was sitting on his lap, kissing him. Or when they'd shared her bed in the bunker. "Did you come to check on me?"

"No. I'd already done that," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I checked on your months ago to make sure you were okay."

"Oh," she shifted in bed, pressing the sheet hard against her chest. "I didn't realize."

"You weren't supposed to, darling."

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive at least?"

He smiled again. "Did you care?"

"You know I did." She paused and shifted over to the side. "You're making me nervous standing over the bed like that. Why don't you sit down?"

"There? In your bed?" he asked, the playful grin on his face.

"Like old times," she told him, hoping he remembered that night talking in bed as fondly as she did.

"Darling," he said, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket, "I couldn't say no if I tried."

Hazel smiled as he toed off his black shoes to reveal wildly patterned green socks. "Have I told you I missed our talks?" she asked. Her heart was beating uncontrollably. It was probably strange that she wasn't afraid of him; she was just inundated with ideas of what he would do if he were in bed with her.

He sat down on the edge of her bed. "Just our talks?"

"That's all we really did was talk," she told him, sliding over so he could slip under the sheets with her. She was vibrating with nervous energy, desire and longing. Of any man she'd ever met, he made her feel the most special and important.

"I seem to remember some tongue," he whispered, turning onto his side and reached out his arms for her. She offered no resistance, letting his warm hands grab her waist and pull her closer. In a moment of shyness, she pressed her forehead against his chest when her bare legs entangled with his.

His fingertips ran up and down her spine. Her top was hiked up, revealing her lower back and the gentle pressure of his fingers against the skin there made her shiver in pleasure. She felt reckless.

"Why the sudden capitulation, love? You spent months telling me I wasn't allowed to share a bed with you," he whispered into her hair.

Why indeed? Hazel wasn't sure herself. She just knew that she was lonely and had missed him terribly. And now that he was alive and standing in front of her, it seemed natural to want him to be closer. He felt so nice next to her with his hands on her body, holding her like she was some precious thing he'd been dreaming about. Even if it was a lie, it felt so nice. "Perspective, I guess. Or maybe I'm just being a stupid girl."

* * *

Crowley slipped his knee between her thighs and ran the fingers of one hand through her soft hair. He couldn't see her face; she was acting demure, hiding it by pressing it into his chest. "You're not a stupid girl," he assured her.

"I shouldn't be doing this with you."

"Doing what? Talking?" he asked with a smile. He slipped a hand underneath her shirt, exploring the smooth skin of her back.

She arched her body into his and Crowley almost groaned at the feel of her against him. "Touching you," she whispered, her little fingertips tracing patterns on his chest.

He'd been drunk with lust before, but this was something more potent. Everything had disappeared. The world, Hell, the politics of power, enemies, minions, everything. Gone. The only thing that existed was her in this bed with her hands on him.

Crowley closed his eyes. That ache in his chest was back. He wanted her, but having her was only short-term. He could and would have sex with her, but it would never be more than that and he couldn't seem to accept only sex. The prospect of letting her go was not just upsetting; it was unacceptable.

He opened his eyes when he heard her speak. "Thank you for returning and saving me back there," she said softly, finally looking up at him.

"It was my fault, love. It was the least I could do."

"I was so sad when I thought you had died." Her simple statement cut open what was left of his blackened heart. She sounded so sincere.

"You're the only one who would be, darling." Crowley pushed her shirt up so he could caress more of her back, feel the silken skin against his fingertips.

She shivered in his arms and pressed herself closer, hooking one of her legs over his. This intimacy was too much, overwhelming, consuming. He just wanted to let himself go with her, forget everything and everyone. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "Well, better one person than none. I'm glad you're still around. Even if you never came to see me."

"And you wanted me to? After I left you?" He brushed his lips over her forehead and cheek, savoring her warmth and sweetness.

"You didn't leave me. You came back. You almost died trying to save me."

He chuckled softly. "You make me sound so altruistic."

"Maybe you're not as bad as you think you are."

"Maybe you don't know me well enough."

"Maybe that's your past."

"And my present is with you? My future, love?" His throat felt like it was closing up as he asked the questions.

"Demons aren't allowed to date lowly humans, right?" she whispered, squeezing his shoulders before sliding her hands down his chest. He wished he could just make his clothes disappear without the possibility of scaring her out of bed.

"It's complicated."

She tilted her head back and pressed her nose into his neck, inhaling and exhaling. "It's okay," she whispered. "I get it. This can't be anything. But I've been lonely and questioning my life lately. And this feels nice right now. Nice is something I need."

Crowley wanted to gather her up in his arms and promise her anything she wanted, promise her that he'd make sure she was never lonely again. Just the thought of her in pain hurt him, made his chest clench with that dull heartache that made thinking straight difficult. "Nice has never been something used when referring to me," he said, hoping a joke would make things better. It didn't, but she laughed softly anyway, her warmth breath tickling his throat.

"You feel very nice," she murmured.

"Mmm, so do you, love." Crowley swept his hands down to cup her ass, pulling her tight against him. He relished her gasp of surprise as her fingers clutched at his shirt and her head tilted back so she could look at him.

Her face was beautiful. A pale complexion just tinged with pink and her soft brown lashes adorning those gorgeous green eyes. Not a stitch of makeup in sight to get between him and her natural beauty. Before he could make a fool of himself by blurting that out, she pushed her body into his and pressed her lips to his mouth. Crowley tightened his grip on her ass and kissed her back with everything he had.

It was an overwhelming kiss that pulled you under, made everything around you disappear. Just her body in his arms and the way her tongue felt as it tangled with his own. She smelled like lilacs and tasted like camomile. She must have been drinking tea to put herself to sleep before he arrived. Well, no sleep was in sight if he had his way.

Crowley slipped his hands up to play with the waist of her panties, slipping beneath the cotton and pushing them down to bare her hip. She pulled back, her lips barely touching his as she caught her breath. He'd almost thought she was going to protest, but she didn't. She actually shifted her body to allow him to pull the panties down a little further. Unable to resist, he shifted one hand to press between her thighs, dipping first one then another finger inside her sex. She was dripping wet and the realization sent a surge of lust and power through him. That was for HIM. He'd put her into this state. She wanted him.

Her hands were fluttering around his neck and chest and, in his lust-addled frame of mind, it took him several moments to realize that she was unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. "Say the word and I'm remove them," he whispered before capturing her mouth in another searing kiss.

"Take them off," she whispered back when he broke away from the kiss.

A simple thought and every stitch of clothing on his body was gone. And the little minx that she was, she started scattering little kisses down his jaw to his neck and then over his collarbone and chest. Crowley moved his fingers inside her, brushing the tip of his middle finger against her clit. Hazel cried out and tilted her hips to give him more access.

Unable to maintain control much longer, he pushed himself up and flipped her onto her back. He easily settled between her legs and he had no doubt she could feel the hard press of his cock nestled between her legs and running up her stomach. Some days he regretted that deal he'd made to grow his cock. But on days like this he was glad for it. He wanted to satisfy her and the extra three inches would go a long way toward making her lose that composure of hers.

He reached down and slipped his hands over her curvy hips and up her tapered waist beneath the tank top she was wearing. It bunched up over his wrists as he proceeded up the sides of her ribcage and grazed the sides of her breasts with his fingertips. Her face was drunk with lust, her pink lips parted as she labored to breathe under this assault of pleasure.

The desire to see her naked body beneath him was overwhelming. He pushed the shirt up more and she obediently lifted her arms so he could pull it over her head and discard it in the floor. He looked down to see her full breasts with rosy nipples and couldn't stop himself from dipping his head to capture one puckered bud in his mouth. Her hands immediately went to his scalp and he could feel the light pressure of her short nails running through his hair, making him shiver in pleasure. He ran his tongue down to the valley between her breasts and back up the mound of the other to give attention to her left nipple.

She tasted delicious, just like he'd alway imagined. And now that he'd whetted his appetite, he wanted to sip that honey that flowed between her luscious legs. Purposefully, he dragged the stubble on his chin down her sensitive stomach, savoring the way she gasped and jerked her body in neediness. "Crowley," she moaned as he hooked his fingers into her panties and smoothly pulled them the rest of the way down her legs.

He smiled as he easily parted her thighs further and placed his open mouth fully over her slit, tentatively running the tip of his tongue up and down her. She tasted even better than he'd hoped and the desire to just lose himself in the way she smelled and felt was almost unbearable. Forget everything he'd ever worked for; he'd settle for this, especially when her hands found the back of his head, urging him to fuck her with his tongue.

He happily complied, enjoying the way her body writhed beneath him as he easily held her down and made her come so hard she pressed the edge of her pillow against her mouth to stifle the scream of pleasure. He smiled when the final swipe of his tongue tore a shuddering, ragged breath from her.

Feeling pleased with himself and crazy with lust, he lifted himself to his knees and looked down at her flushed body, her rapidly rising and falling chest. "What was that about sex not being like it is in the movies?"

"I take it back," she said in a dreamy voice.

Crowley used a hand to adjust his cock at her entrance, watching as he pressed inch by inch into her. She was so tight and hot, her muscles gripping him so hard he was unsure if he could finish entering her. He leaned his body over her, peppering kisses up the side of her neck as he flexed his hips, making little rocking motions.

"Oh god," she moaned, shifting her hips and hooking one leg over his hip. The moment allowed him to slide deeper. His head was spinning over the way she felt, so warm and willing beneath him.

"Oh, Crowley," he corrected through his clenched teeth.

"You're huge," she gasped, as he hooked her other leg over his arm and pressed into her again, this time sliding all the way home.

Crowley laughed softly. "Stroking my ego as well as my cock, love?"

"It wasn't a compliment," she said. "It was a statement of fact."

Tentatively, he pulled out and pushed back in, savoring the way she clamped onto his cock so tightly. "Mmm, flattery will get you everywhere with me, darling. You feel so fucking good."

Another stroke out and in and she was tilting her head back in pleasure. "Oh, please don't stop," she begged.

He said, "Oh, I don't intend to," before capturing her mouth in another kiss. It felt beyond good to take her like this, his tongue in her mouth and his cock buried deep inside her, her body arching up into his like she couldn't get enough of him, wanted him more than anything else in her entire life. It was a heady feeling, better than anything he'd felt in a very long time, maybe better than anything period.

It didn't take long for him to feel that pressure that was rising in his balls, that imminent release that would shoot through him and out of him. She was so easy to manipulate and bring over the edge. Just a swipe of his thumb over her clit at the top of her cleft and she was crying out as she broke the kiss and shoved her face into his neck. Her little fingertips were biting into his arm and shoulder as her body stiffened beneath him in waves of pleasure. Feeling the muscles of her sex clamp down on him in release made him lose his rhythm. He pounded into her and finally came, almost roaring out his release before collapsing on her and immersing himself in the soft touch and delicious scent of her body.

* * *

Hazel had fallen asleep with his arms around her. And she'd woken to an empty bed. The sheets were askew and half the comforter was on the floor. Her panties were waded up at the foot of the bed and her shirt was hanging off the headboard. She pushed her hair back from her face and sat up, straining to hear the sounds of someone else in the darkness of her house. Nothing.

He was gone. Long gone from the look of things. She pulled the sheet and blanket closer and lied back down on her side, curling into a little ball. Stupid, stupid girl. She'd known it would be nothing when he'd popped into her bedroom with his "hello, love", but she'd let him slip inside her defenses anyway. Even though she'd told herself that it was just sex, it was never just sex for her. She'd fallen asleep thinking that maybe he wanted more since he was sticking around. Since he was being gentle and sweet to her.

Obviously, he had just been waiting for a good time to exit without her accusing eyes watching him walk out the door. She felt pathetic and even lonelier than she'd felt before he'd waltzed back into her life.

The alarm clock by her bed said it was six in the morning. It was still dark and very cold outside. She sighed and forced her eyes closed. She needed sleep if she was going to work tonight. And she finally did sleep after she's cried herself into exhaustion.


	15. Chapter 15

Hazel was showering after a long night at work, thinking of all the ways he had touched her body two nights before, thinking of how much she wished things were different and she didn't feel this huge hole in her life without him. He was a demon and she didn't need any more shit to deal with. Losing her mom, then losing her dad, and finally losing Hank was enough.

She turned her back to the spray and used her fingers to rinse the conditioner out of her hair. Maybe she'd get it cut, actually pay a stylist who charged more than twenty bucks to make her look like she wasn't such a loser.

"Hello, love."

Her stomach jumped into her throat when she heard his voice so near. Before she could wipe the water from her face, his hands were on her hips and he'd pushed her up against the side of the shower. His naked body was pinning hers and for a moment she almost opened her mouth and told him to get away from her She didn't need him to pop into her life, fuck her, and then leave like she meant nothing. She should have never had sex with him the first time.

And then she felt his mouth on her neck as he scattered kisses up to her ear. "I've missed you, darling," he whispered softly. It sounded so honest, so heartfelt. Her will power just drained right out of her body and in its place was lust and desire and need.

"Why did you leave?" she asked, grabbing his shoulders and pressing her wet, naked body against his. Hazel immediately wanted to take back the question. She sounded like a pathetic, love-lorn little girl.

"I'm not good at this, love."

His hands were everywhere-sliding down her ribcage, cupping her breasts, tracing the curve of hers hips, dipping between her parted thighs. Setting her on fire. He kissed her, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth so she couldn't speak. When he pulled back to let her breath, she said, "Good at what?"

"At you. At being with you." He cupped one breast while the other hand pressed between her legs to slip two fingers inside her wet and willing sex.

What he was doing made it difficult to think. It had been so long since a man had held her this way. And none of them had ever shown this level of unbridled desire of her. It made her weak. "You haven't been with me; that's the problem."

"I'm here with you now," he said before kissing her hard and passionately. "And here is where I want to be. Isn't that important, love?"

"Yes, but..."

"Don't make it difficult. Don't make it hard. Let's just... have this."

She gave up so easily as he reached both hands back to grab her ass. Hazel squealed as he pressed her back against the shower wall and lifted her, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist. As if she were made just for him and him just for her, he slipped himself deep inside her body.

Hazel arched her back, pressing into him, helping him go deeper, though he was already quite deep enough. She couldn't breathe as he pulled out and pushed back in, making her mind go blank except for the pleasure he was providing. She was no longer upset with him for waltzing in and out of her bedroom She was just immersed in the heavenly feel of him holding her like she was a precious thing while he did his best to make her lose her mind in pleasure.

And she did, sooner rather than later. After she came, he grunted his release and eventually let her body slide down the wall until her feet were on the floor of the shower. She felt shaky and unsteady on her legs. She watched in a blissful, post-orgasmic state as he turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the bar on the wall. She nearly forgave him everything when he wrapped her in the towel and helped her step out of the shower.

He led her into her bedroom, holding onto one of her hands. In a dream-like state, she let him pull the towel from her to dry her hair and her body. With only a slight twinge of self-consciousness, she slipped under the covers and watched him dry himself off before getting in beside her.

She gravitated toward him, molding herself to his warm body. "I've missed you," she admitted.

"You mean you've missed my cock," he said, pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her.

"Don't," she warned. "I meant what I said."

"Perhaps," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

* * *

Hazel was a fucking liability. Abbadon was still on the run, her supporters few and far between. Most of Hell had bent the knee to him without a second thought. He brought order and the promise of plenty of souls to torture. Less fighting amongst demons and more torture than Abbadon could provide. It was almost too easy. Actually catching her was proving to be more difficult. But instead he was sitting at his desk thinking about HER. The sweetest little blonde blackjack dealer in the world.

He wasn't a fool. He didn't have blind support from every single demon. While she was at work he'd performed a few spells on her house and her car, even around the outside of the casino, that would ward off anything that had taken an interest in her. He didn't want her to be used as a tool against him. Abbadon knew very well what kind of things he would do for lovely Hazel. Sacrifice himself like a lovesick idiot was one of those things.

It was two in the morning. She was probably done with her shift. She'd be driving home in a few minutes. And then she'd be showering, her little hands all over that smooth, creamy skin. Crowley's hand tightened on the glass of whiskey. It shattered into pieces, the amber liquid soaking the contract on his desk.

"Fuck," he muttered, picking a couple shards of glass out of his hand. A small amount of blood pooled in his palm before he soaked it up with the handkerchief in his lapel. It had been two days since he'd seen her. Since he fucked her in the shower and then buried his face in her wet hair while she fell asleep in his arms. Crowley had found it extremely distressing when he'd realized he didn't know which he'd enjoyed more-the sex or the intimacy afterward.

He yearned for her. Two days appeared to be his limit. Forty-eight hours and he needed her again. Needed to hear her voice, to inhale the delicate smell at the hollow of her throat, to touch her silky skin, to sheath himself in the velvet glove of her sex, to press his lips fully against her pink ones, to let down his guard as he held her while resting in her bed. Nothing compared. Not torture or power or violence. Nothing came close to that feeling of acceptance and contentment. It had been something he'd chased all his life and death, eventually replacing with other lesser pursuits. And now that it was within his grasp, it scared the shit out of him.

Crowley sighed as he watched the slices on his palm heal themselves. He'd told himself he wouldn't do this, wouldn't keep going back to her. The second time was supposed to be the last. But he couldn't stop. He closed his eyes and when he opened them he was standing in her bedroom. She was unhooking her skirt in front of the closet door and she looked startled when he appeared out of thin air.

"Hello, love," he said softly, running his eyes over her figure. Lingering on the fullness of her breasts and hips. She was beautiful and she was his. He'd had her twice and in that moment he knew what he was up to. He'd keep coming back every night or every other night. She'd be his secret. It was dangerous, but she was intoxicating and he wouldn't give that up. Couldn't give her up.

"No," she said, holding her hands out and taking a step back.

Crowley felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "No?" he asked.

"No," she told him again. "You're not going to do this to me. You can't just..." She trailed off, pushing her blonde hair back out of her face with a hand. "You can't just come in here every other night and then leave. This isn't fair."

"Life isn't fair, love."

"Well, I have a say and I say no. Get out. What you're doing to me is... it's toxic. I can't stop thinking about you and I only get to see you when you show up. That's not right."

He felt his heart constrict. He hadn't had human blood in months. After he'd escaped he had gone off the rails temporarily. He'd had too much blood and nearly ruined his chances of winning in any campaign against Abbadon. But he'd been clean for months and the instances in which he felt those twinges of humanity had become few and far between. It appeared he hadn't been able to bury that terrible organ that caused him so much pain, though. It still called to her, beat for her, longed for her love and affection.

"This is complicated, darling," he said, trying to console her.

"No. It's not." She fastened the skirt so it wouldn't fall and put her hands on her hips. She looked defiant and gorgeous, everything he wanted. "You are using me and giving me nothing."

"I gave you two orgasms on Thursday night," he shot back.

"Don't be obtuse," she snapped back. "I want a relationship and you can't give me one. Won't give me one."

"I'm a demon; what do you expect?"

"Too much, obviously. You need to leave now."

Crowley stepped forward to take her in his arms. If he could just touch her then she'd change her mind. He could unzip her skirt and unbutton the blouse. They could fall into her bed and he could bury his face between her thighs and relish the way her short nails dragged along his scalp while he pleasured her.

He took another step, reaching out an arm, and then he hit a wall. It was the familiar, invisible wall of a Devil's Trap. "Darling," he said. His heart was heavy, sinking into his stomach. "I won't hurt you. Ever."

"You are hurting me. You're using me. I'm starting to feel like a girl in your harem. And I refuse."

His throat was closing up. He was hurting her? He'd been so careful to not do so. She was the only one he never wanted to hurt. "What can I do to make it better, love?"

"Nothing. You need to leave. I can't do this; it's destroying me." There were tears in her eyes. She blinked and they slipped down her face. "I'll break the trap, but you have to leave. I don't want you to touch me."

"Please, darling," he said. Panic and fear was rising up, overtaking him. What would happen if he didn't have her? He'd stayed away from her before because it was his choice. But what if it was hers that he stay away? What if she wouldn't allow him to see her, touch her, feel her body next to his in her little bed?

"Don't," Hazel warned him. "Just go, okay. Thank you for my brother. Thank you for saving me. But you can't do this to me. I'll never have a life if you do. And then you'll get tired of me and I'll miss you more than I already do."

Crowley swallowed. "Break the trap and I'll leave."

"Promise me," she said, edging forward.

"I promise, love," he whispered. She was right. Why not rip the band-aid off now? Finish this charade before it became harder to end. She had always been too good for him. He would just find someone who looked like her or whom he could make to look like her and use that someone to get her out of his system.

Hazel flipped the edge of her bedroom area rug up and rubbed her shoe against the white, chalky substance beneath it. After a few passes about an inch of the outer circle was smudged enough to break the trap. "Behave yourself, please," she said. There was fear in her eyes, trepidation and anxiety.

"For you, darling," he agreed. And then he snapped his fingers and sent himself back to his study. The bottle of whiskey he'd been drinking was sitting on the desk. Crowley reached over and grabbed the neck of it. He took a generous swig before hurling it against he wall. It shattered into hundreds of pieces on the hardwood floor, but the destruction didn't make him feel better at all.

* * *

Hazel was making a list in her head while she drove home. It was a short list of things she needed to take with her to Kansas. A suitcase of clothes and toiletries, her Kindle, a small grocery bag of her favorite books, her computer and her cell phone, and the tote bag of things the Winchesters had given her when they'd dropped her off. It contained bottles of holy water, a cross, salt, a machete, a revolver, a book with important symbols, and borax. She still wasn't sure why borax was so important. She'd been in shock when they'd rattled off what to use it for since a scant three days before she'd almost died before watching Crowley be killed.

Except he hadn't been killed. He was alive and well. So well that he'd managed to get in her pants twice before she'd had the fortitude to tell him no. Scratch that. It hadn't been fortitude or strength. It had been sheer pain and desperation. She wanted him too much, cared for him too much. And he obviously didn't reciprocate if he could pop in and out of her bedroom every other night for sex before slipping out while she was asleep. It made her feel sad and cheap and disposable.

She thought back to almost three weeks ago when she'd trapped him within the circle in her bedroom and asked him to leave. He'd looked so hurt, devastated almost. But he was a demon and all the books and websites said demons are bad. The Winchesters said Crowley was especially bad. And while she didn't completely believe them, she understood that being involved with him was a bad idea. She'd end up heartbroken and used up; it was just a matter of time.

A week ago she'd called Dean and asked if he and Sam needed her help. She couldn't fight like they could, but she could sit on her ass and look up stuff in books. They had resisted at first, telling her that she didn't want to live the life of a hunter. When she stuck to her guns, they agreed to think about it. She didn't give them much time to think it over when she called them the next day from her car before she walked into work. They had reluctantly agreed to a trial period. She could have her old bedroom back if she did research for them. Hazel got the impression that they were overwhelmed with the size of the library available to them. Fortunately, she'd always been comfortable with a card catalog system.

Hazel didn't have much. After putting in her two week notice, she began giving away or selling all the things she didn't intend to take with her. All that was left now were the larger pieces of furniture like the bed and the sofa and the things she wanted to bring with her. It felt freeing to rid herself of things. And that feeling was familiar. Whenever she'd experienced a loss in her life, she'd reacted by purging her life of things she didn't need. Dad died and she'd sold most of her CD collection and half her book collection. Hank killed himself and she whittled her wardrobe down to two drawers and twenty hangers. Breaking up with a boyfriend? Sure, she happily cleaned out the kitchen cabinets and toted boxes of glasses, plates, and silverware to the thrift store. Purging made her feel better, made her feel in control of her life.

And now here she was, getting rid of almost everything in her life because she'd developed feelings for the baddest of bad boys. How ironic that she'd always steered clear of them. She would have never guessed that once she did fall for one he would be the worst-a demon who seemed content to use her for sex. Hazel knew that deep down she would have put up with the arrangement if he'd been willing to let her into his life more. Booty calls at 3am were okay if she knew what he was doing and where he was, if she knew his past and present. But Crowley was a mystery. She never really knew what he was thinking and she certainly didn't know what he spent his days and nights doing. And the only things she knew about him were things she'd read second hand in the Men of Letters library. He had deftly avoided answering almost every one of her questions. It just wasn't fair and it wasn't healthy. And she needed to hit the breaks before she got her heart broken even more than it already was.

The dome light in her car cast a yellow glow over the interior as she pushed the door open and grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. It was cold tonight-a forecasted low of twenty-with light snow. The stuff never really stuck in Albuquerque, but it made for a more tense drive home.

Hazel shivered as she locked up her car and hurried to the front door, fumbling for her keys in the dark. She'd forgotten to leave the little porch light by the door on when she'd left for work. After a struggle to find the keyhole, she let herself in and tossed the purse in the floor. The little house felt so empty. No coffee table, no kitchen chairs, no pictures on the walls, no pantry filled with food. She had one week left before she was due to drive off to Kansas for good.

She shrugged off her coat and tossed it on the couch as she made her way into the bedroom. A shower would be nice, she thought. A hot shower to warm her chilly bones. Just as she turned the corner to enter her bedroom, the hair on the back of her neck raised.

While the rest of the house was dark, illuminated only by a nightlight in the living room and a small light over the kitchen sink, the bedroom was warm with candlelight. She stepped into the room before she fully comprehended that she could be in danger. Surely if someone had broken in, they would have met her at the door and killed her there. Why wait in her bedroom?

He was sitting on the foot of her bed, his forearms resting on his knees and his head bowed, eyes staring at the floor. "Crowley," she said, shocked to see him. Weeks ago when she'd asked him to leave, he'd left without argument and she hadn't heard from him since. She'd assumed he had moved on and forgotten about her.

He lifted his head, his face shrouded in darkness. "Hello, love," he said softly.


	16. Chapter 16

He lifted his head, his face shrouded in darkness. "Hello, love," he said softly.

"I don't..."

"I know," he said, interrupting her. "I'm not here for that. Well, I am here for that, but..." He heaved a huge sigh, his shoulders drooping like he was defeated. She ran her eyes over the expensive black suit. His usual attire. "Are you moving?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"None of your business."

She saw the flash of white from his teeth when he smiled. "Fair enough. I've missed you."

Hazel shook her head. "No. No, no, no. This isn't a real relationship. You can't just show up here and expect for me to talk to you or..."

"Fuck me?" he asked.

"Yeah," she agreed.

"I'm expecting even more than that, love. I'm here to ask for a favor."

Hazel laughed. It sounded shrill and forced, filled with anxiety. "I'm not taking the key again."

"I'm asking for a bigger favor than that."

"Well, I don't think I can help you."

"Will you hear me out?" he asked.

Hazel crossed her arms over her chest. "I suppose."

He dropped his head to look at the floor again and heaved another sigh. "I need you to help me with a spell."

"No," she said immediately. Hazel felt proud of herself for being able to put such steel behind her voice when she still felt soft over him.

"Please, love. Please." There was something in his voice. Some catch, some desperation that made her think twice.

"What does the spell do?"

Crowley lifted his head again. "Nothing harmful. It's good magic. Clean magic."

"Yeah, I don't know about that."

"I swear to you. It won't hurt a soul. And it will help me immensely."

"Help you how?"

"It will just help me."

"And what do I have to do?" Hazel asked, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

"Make love to me."

You could have heard a penny drop it was so quiet. She stood there, her mouth hanging open, waiting for him to laugh his careless laugh and tell her that he was joking. But he didn't. He seemed sick with anxiety, his shoulders hunched over and tense. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"You heard me, darling. What did you think all the candles were for?"

"Oh, I don't know. Magic spells? Demon incantations? Whatever all this hocus pocus stuff is that you do so you can pop in an out of my house without ever coming in through the door."

"If I came in through the door, then I'd be caught in the Devil's Trap in the living room or the one at the foot of this bed. Like last time."

"Can you blame me?"

He shook his head and smiled again. "Certainly not, love. I've caused nothing but turmoil in your lovely life."

"It's hardly lovely and you know it," she snapped.

"Yes, well, let me make it up to you."

"And sex with you will make it all up to me? Been there, done that. And I got burned."

"I shouldn't have treated you that way," Crowley admitted. He sounded like it was a difficult thing to say. She could tell that he wasn't used to taking the blame or admitting his mistakes. And she wasn't even sure why he thought of it as a mistake. He'd gotten what he wanted: sex. At the time, he'd been quite willing to maintain the status quo by stopping by every other night for a roll in the hay.

"Why?" she asked him. "Why shouldn't you have treated me that way?"

He shifted his gaze away from hers. The room was dark, but it looked like he was staring at the wall to her right. "Because you've treated me better than anyone ever has. And you don't deserve to feel discarded. I know all too well how that feels."

"Oh, the great King of Hell has feelings?" Hazel was immediately ashamed of the venom in her voice and the way it made him flinch.

"I suppose I deserved that," Crowley conceded.

"I'm sorry all the same. I... I'm just hurt," she said.

"You had feelings for me?" His voice was cautious, like he wasn't completely sure it was a valid question.

"Of course I did. Of course I do. And I guess it isn't fair for me to be upset with you when this is just the way the cookie crumbles. Demons aren't allowed to date humans, right?"

"Yes, well. That's what I'm trying to fix. Come here," he said, reaching out a hand. He could stand up, but if he took more than a step, he'd be in the Devil's Trap. And he knew it.

She moved forward and stopped two feet from him. "What you are here to fix?"

"This," he answered. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but now that she was closer she could see his face better. He looked riddled with anxiety and fear. The hand he'd reached out to her with was trembling.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her throat closing up in fear for him. "Did Abbadon hurt you?"

"No."

"Why are you shaking then?"

"I'm terrified that you'll help me. And I'm terrified you won't."

Hazel shook her head. "You're not making any sense."

"I'm admittedly a bit jumbled up, love. But, you see, I fear I may harbor some feelings for you. Feelings that, try as I might, have not gone away. And have, fortunately or unfortunately, led me to make some very rash decisions which have in turn led me to this very moment." He paused and looked up at her, his eyes filled with pleading. "So please take my hand before I have a nervous breakdown. Have you ever seen a demon have a nervous breakdown? It's not very pretty."

Hazel heart was beating so hard she could feel it against her ribcage. Her chest was tight and her brain fried from his admission of feelings for her. She lifted a hand and placed it in his, stepping forward to stand between his knees. "What kind of feelings?" she asked.

"The troublesome kind, love," he replied with a smile.

His hands were holding hers and he was looking up at her like he had no other place to be. It felt nice. "What do you want from me?" she asked softly.

"I told you. I want your help with a spell."

"Am I going to end up with a key stuck to the back of my neck?"

He chuckled. "No, darling. No harm will come to you. This spell is for me. To give me what I want."

"What do you want?"

"I'll tell you afterward. You have my word." He let go of her hands and settled his hands on her hips before he moved them up to her waist. "It's very ridiculous how badly I've missed you."

"Sure didn't seem like it," she said, letting him pull her a half step closer to his body.

"I play my cards close to my vest. It's a hard habit to break, but a habit one must have to survive in Hell."

"So, what? You're here for one last..."

"Oh, no," he said, interrupting her. "Not one last anything, love."

"You're still not making any sense."

"Yes, I know." He pulled a large syringe out of his jacket pocket.

Hazel tried to step back as she looked at the thing in shock. His arm wrapped around her so his palm was pressed into the small of her back. "Let me go," she insisted.

"I will," he agreed. "But hear me out first." He held the syringe up to her face, showing her that it was empty. "I need your blood. It's part of the spell."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

"Why?" she asked again.

"Because I find that against all the odds and against everything I have known, I may be in love with you, you silly girl."

Hazel felt weak in the knees. "What?" Her voice sounded so far away.

"I won't repeat it again. Once was enough."

She didn't need him to repeat it again. She'd heard him very clearly when he'd admitted to being in love with her. And he sounded so damn sincere. She reached down and took the syringe from him, deciding in that moment to take a leap of faith. Faith in him and his honesty in the darkness of her bedroom.

"What do I do?" she asked.

"Four syringes of your blood, once every five minutes." He let go of it and let her have it.

"And then?"

"An incantation and..."

"Sex?"

He nodded once. "It has to be with someone who knows my nature, but is accepting enough of it to still be willing."

"Not a long list of people to choose from, then?" she asked, looking at the needle dubiously.

Crowley smiled, but it looked so sad. "Only one, love."

She sat down beside him and unbuttoned the cuff of her dress shirt and rolled the sleeve up enough to display the inside of elbow. "I don't know how to do this," Hazel admitted, looking over at him.

"May I?" he asked. She relinquished the syringe to him and watched as he deftly slid the needle beneath her skin. She felt a pinch of pain, but nothing after that. She had to look away when he pulled the plunger back and her blood filled the tube. "Here," he whispered, giving the syringe back to her.

"Where do I...?" Hazel knew she probably looked frightened.

"Anywhere. My neck," he said, leaning his head to the side and offering his neck to her.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. I'm a big boy." He was being so gentle with her, treating her like she might break or leave him at any moment.

Hazel held her breath as she pushed the needle into his neck and pressed the plunger back in. Her dark red blood disappeared into him.

"Two fifty-one," Crowley said, looking at the clock on her nightstand behind them.

They sat in silence for five minutes before she injected him again. And then another five minutes passed before the third. One more and then he'd be undressing her. She'd be a liar if she said she didn't want it, want him. She did very much. Those times they had been together were seared in her memory so deep that she could almost feel the ghost of his touch when she was especially lonely and using those memories to feed her fantasies.

"May I undress you, love?" His hands were undoing the buttons of her shirt. She looked down and watched him calmly undo each one until he got to the waist of her skirt. She stood and watched as he unzipped the skirt and pulled it down her hips so he could finish undoing the buttons of her shirt. She stood before him in underwear and a shirt only now.

"Why can't I undress you?" Hazel asked, looking down at him. He looked the same, but he wasn't quite acting the same. He seemed scared or sad. Maybe both.

"You can," he replied. She watched as if from outside her own body as her hands reached out and loosened his tie before pulling it off. And then she unbuttoned his shirt as he'd done for her. He stood up next to her and unzipped his pants so she could pull the shirt out and finish what she'd started. It felt like a dream. Everything was so quiet and so surreal. The candlelight made it seem like nothing existed but them in that little circle of flickering warmth.

Hazel watched as he shrugged out of the shirt and jacket, leaving him in a black undershirt and an unbuttoned pair of pants. Instead of letting her continue to undress him, though, he reached out and pushed her shirt off her shoulders. It fell to the floor as he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her lips. Hazel sighed in relief and kissed him back, afraid that her longing for him was leaking into her desperate kiss a bit too much.

Even if he was a liar and it was one last time, that would be okay. She needed one last time with him. She needed a goodbye. She needed his hands on her and the way he looked at her like nothing else mattered.

Crowley pulled back from her, bracing his hands on her shoulders. "The final syringe," he whispered. She fumbled to grab the implement off the bed and hand it to him. He helped her gather the last of the blood and turned his head to the side so she could inject him. He didn't flinch or give any outward appearance of the blood changing him. She wondered if her blood would even work.

"What now?" she asked, her voice soft.

He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her closer for another lingering kiss. She felt weak in the knees when he swept his tongue into her mouth like he was claiming her. She couldn't help but melt into him, allowing her body to mold to him, leaving no space between them. He was so warm, almost hot.

"Now for the fun part," he whispered when he pulled his mouth off hers.

Crowley deftly unhooked her bra with one hand. She hadn't even realized what he'd done until the pressure of her bra wrapped around her ribcage lessened and the garment fell off. She slipped her hands underneath the hem of his undershirt and pushed it up his stomach and chest, letting her fingertips move over the contours of his chest. He stepped out of his shoes and let his pants drop while she kissed him again.

"You make me crazy," she admitted, running her hands over his chest and stomach once he'd pulled his shirt over his head.

He pulled her up against him again, his hands pressed into her lower back, and he trailed open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck. "Not nearly as crazy as you make me, love," he whispered. She could feel his erection like steel beneath the cotton of his black boxer-briefs. The knowledge that he was hard for her, ready to give her pleasure that been missing since she'd shown him the door, was almost overwhelming. She couldn't get him out of his clothes fast enough.

Crowley let her go and sat down on the foot of the bed. Slowly, he slid her panties over her hips and down her thighs, letting them land on the floor at her feet. She stepped out of them and let his hands on her hips pulled her onto the bed. He scooted back and urged her to climb on top of him. Hazel should have been self conscious, but instead she just felt like she was on fire and he needed to put her out.

A snap of his fingers and his boxer-briefs were gone and he using his skillful hands to urge her to straddle his waist, not just his thigh. Hazel adjusted her body and relished the press of his erection against her core once she had herself in place. Crowley bent his knees to give support behind her as she fumbled with his cock, trying to do anything she could to get him inside her. His hands that were currently fondling her nipples and stroking her hips and thighs were driving her to distraction.

Finally, she felt him slide inside as she lowered herself onto his shaft. She couldn't stop her head from falling back and a lusty moan from escaping her parted lips. Experimentally, she rocked her hips. Crowley dug his fingertips into her ass cheeks, urging her to move.

"I'm going to say an incantation. I need you to repeat it," he said, his voice husky and breathless.

Hazel wasn't sure she would be able to concentrate on the feeling of him buried inside her and his words. "Okay," she said, taking one of his hands and lacing her fingers with his, using it as leverage to rock back and forth and up and down on him. She was too lost in lust to care what he thought of her or to be nervous about how she looked.

He said a line of gibberish. It sounded latin. And it sounded old and scary and powerful. She hesitated and he repeated it. When she didn't respond, he said, "I promise you that this won't hurt you. Trust me."

Hazel nodded and then gasped as he lifted his hips up to meet her downward stroke. After she regained some of her composure, she repeated the line.

Crowley said another and she parroted it back to him. It was followed by a third and a fourth and a fifth. By then she was concerned that she wasn't doing it right because she couldn't feel a damn thing other than the heavenly fullness of having him deep inside her.

He said a sixth line which she repeated like all the others. As soon as the last word left her mouth, she could sense the tension in his body. She felt nothing other than the pleasure she was taking from him, but he was obviously feeling something much more. Crowley reached up and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down until her breasts were pressed into his chest. The position left her open, allowing him to lift his hips and pump into her, hard and fast. She kissed him and he kissed her back, desperation and maybe even a little fear evident in the tightness of his lips and the way his teeth hit against her own.

"Come for me, love. Please. Please," he whispered against her mouth. And she did. It was like all she needed was his command and the tension that had been building between her legs just snapped and flooded through her entire body. As she came down, she could feel his body stiffen as he climaxed. A wordless, animalistic cry fell from his lips, rending the air.

Hazel ran her hands up his arms and over his shoulders before gently massaging the back of his neck. His eyes were closed and his chest was heaving up and down with labored breaths. She shifted, worried that lying on him would make him uncomfortable, and felt him slip out of her. As she sat up to move off him, he opened his eyes. They were an oily black. Her breath caught in her throat at the unnatural sight. She watched as he blinked once, then twice. The black pooled above his lower lash line and at the outside corners of his eyes. On the third blink, the oily black substance tipped out of his eyes like tears, tracing dirty paths down his temples and marring her white pillowcase.

"Are you okay?" she asked, unable to look away. Now that she could see his eyes beneath the black film, she could see that he looked fearful.

"I don't know," Crowley answered, his voice soft.

"What did the spell do?" she asked, feeling her stomach knot up.

Crowley shook his head. He looked shell-shocked.

Hazel rolled off him and adjusted herself so she was lying on her side, facing him. "Tell me," she whispered.

"I think it worked," he said, turning his head to look at her. "Part of me thought it wouldn't."

"What did it do to you?"

He rubbed at the black tear tracks on his face, pulling his hand back to look at the residue. "Made me human." His voice was soft and filled with awe.

Hazel sat up, too shocked to even care that she was naked in bed with a man. Normally, she liked to be more demure, covering herself with a sheet after sex. "What?" she asked, her voice just a bit shrill.

"Made me human. Like you."

"But... why?"

"Because it was the only way I can have you," he responded easily, like she should have known the reason all along.

"Me?"

"You. I've thought of nothing but you since... since the day I was stabbed." He squinted his eyes, as if dredging up an old memory. "No," he said, "since you walked into the dungeon in the WInchester's bunker."

"I... didn't know you could do that. Change back to human."

Crowley shifted onto his side, wincing at the feeling of human exertion, minor aches and pains. "The Winchesters threatened me with it. And when you kicked me out, I went searching for a way to do it myself. The only alternative I found that wouldn't involve a willing sacrifice was this method."

"Which worked?" It was halfway between a statement and a question.

"Yes, it certainly worked. Are you going to make me leave?" He looked terrified of her answer.

Hazel shook her head. "Never. Although, my lease is up at the end of the month. So, we can't stay here."

"Where are you moving and can I move with you?" That nervous anticipation of her answer again.

She reached up a hand to stroke his stubbly cheek. "Of course. But I'm not sure if you're on such good terms with the people who own the place I am going."

"And where would that be?"

"The Winchester's bunker."

His eyes darkened, a lick of jealousy and anxiety kindling in his core.

"I offered my help with research," Hazel clarified. "No funny business."

"Would you reconsider for me?"

She shook her head once, scooting her body closer to his so she could slide one of her legs between his. Crowley's arms easily slide around her. "This is something I have to do for me," she whispered. "I need to help. I need to do something meaningful with my life."

He nodded twice and then buried his face in her neck, inhaling her. She ran her fingers through his hair, holding him close, hoping he'd come with her and afraid that she'd spit in the face of someone who had taken the biggest risk she'd ever seen for her. HER of all people.

Finally, his gruff voice murmured. "Where is your phone?"

"In my purse. By the front door."

Without another word, he pushed himself up and out of her bed. Her heart ached with the loss of him and she almost took it all back. Almost told him that they could move to the Key West or Puerta Vallarta or some other tropical paradise and forget all the bad shit that had ever happened to either of them. Fresh start, clean slate. But she knew it wasn't practical and knew that neither of them would be satisfied.

He returned, his naked body moving through the dim candlelight with just the slightest bit of awkwardness. Being human after hundreds of years was probably an adjustment. He slipped into the bed, touching her legs with his cold feet and making her muffle a squeal of protest.

His lips brushed over hers and then across her forehead. "Let's see here," he said softly, flipping through her contacts before pressing the phone to his ear. She could barely hear the phone on the other end ring once, twice, three times. And then a male voice answered.

"Squirrel!" Crowley said, startling Hazel. "I hear you're looking for a reference librarian with a working knowledge of spells, demons, and all things creepy-crawly. Have I got just the guy for you."

Hazel tried to smother the smile that spread across her face, but she couldn't seem to keep it in check. Dean and Sam were good guys. They'd come around. And with the four of them working against the bad guys, nothing could stop them.

THE END


End file.
